


Under Pressure

by JHSC



Series: The Ultimate Kidfic of Ultimate Destiny [2]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Aftermath of Violence, Barney-centric, Blood, Canon-Typical Violence, Childhood Sexual Abuse, Chronic Illness, Grief/Mourning, HIV/AIDS, Homophobia, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, M/M, Military Homophobia, Minor Clint Barton/Phil Coulson, Original Character Death(s), Past Rape/Non-con, Teen Pregnancy, Temporary Character Death, Terminal Illnesses, The Barney Sequel of Ultimate Destiny
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-02
Updated: 2018-07-17
Packaged: 2018-10-14 04:43:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 102,394
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10529193
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JHSC/pseuds/JHSC
Summary: Barney has a plan: leave the circus, support his family, and get control over his life.Then his plan gets shot to hell.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> _Pressure pushing down on me_   
>  _Pressing down on you, no man ask for_   
>  _Under pressure that burns a building down_   
>  _Splits a family in two_   
>  _Puts people on streets._   
>  [-Queen, "Under Pressure"](http://bit.ly/2oqGFwA)
> 
> Note: This is the sequel/companion to [Landslide](http://bit.ly/2nMa3Ko). You don't have to read that fic in order to enjoy this fic, but it will provide additional context for what's going on. There will be a lot of parallels. ~~And a lot of perpendiculars.~~ This story is tagged minor Clint/Phil because it's a continuation of the previous Clint/Phil fic and they may possibly perhaps show up at some point. But this is definitely a fic about **Barney**. 
> 
> My thanks and appreciation to Westgate, shell, Laura Kaye, and Kathar for betaing.
> 
> **Warnings are important so here are a lot:**
> 
> \- This covers events from the first chapter of Landslide, and includes description of the part where Clint gets shot. We know he survived, but the characters do not.  
> \- An original character dies off-screen and it's very tragic. It is implied that he dies from AIDS complications.  
> \- Child abuse and child sexual abuse are implied, but not shown or described  
> \- Pregnancy issues are discussed, but do not include any graphic medical or birth details  
> \- This fic is gonna be heavy. HEAVY. Everything in the tags is important. Please make a note.

*

Thursday, October 2, 1986

*

Barney wakes up. He doesn’t move, doesn’t change his breathing, just listens.

He’d fallen asleep on the couch in George and Jim’s trailer, wrapped in the knitted afghan that’s been there for as long as he’s been at the circus. He fell asleep, waiting for Carson to bring Josh back from the hospital with an answer to what’s wrong with him, why he keeps getting sicker and sicker no matter what they do for him. Josh hasn’t been able to work for weeks, hasn’t been able to get up off this couch for days.

Carson had said this afternoon that he’d drive Josh to the hospital in town, and Barney had settled in to wait for news.

The trailer door swings shut; whoever just came in catches it with their body so that it doesn’t slam, and quietly latches it. Probably trying not to disturb him. It doesn’t matter — Barney woke up the moment their foot hit the bottom step. Old habits die hard.

“They back?” Jim asks, his voice quiet and coming from somewhere above Barney’s head. He keeps his eyes closed.

“Just Carson,” George replies, and Barney strains to hear the rest, desperate for news. Josh had been so frail, so pale when they took him away. “Hospital wouldn’t take him, said they were ‘ill-equipped,’ the fucking—”

“Shh!”

George continues, voice low. “Fucking bastards, so Carson just left him on the front steps, said it was fine, they’d have to let him in eventually.”

“Jesus,” Jim whispers, voice low but harsh. “This isn’t 1981 anymore, what’s he gonna—”

“Carson said it was the kid’s idea, to protest—”

“He expects us to believe that? Josh could barely talk when he left here, he was in no condition to—”

Someone scoffs; probably George. “Asshole didn’t want to fight for the kid, make a stink and get people thinking the whole circus is infected.”

Jim sighs. “We should'a kept him here for the last of it.”

“And bury him in a field on our way out of town?”

“Better than him dying on a park bench,” Jim shoots back. Barney feels bile in the back of his throat, and swallows it down as hard as he can. He doesn’t want to believe it. Doesn’t want to think about it. Josh can’t be... He _can’t_...

“Fucking hell,” George swears again. There’s a pause, then, “How’s our boy, here?”

“Still thinks Josh is coming back.”

“Fucking hell. Fucking Carson. Fucking hospital.”

Jim and George move to the other end of the trailer at that point, and Barney hears them settle down into bed. Their whispers continue for a long while after, but he can’t make any of it out.

Barney spends the rest of the night wide awake on the couch, chest aching, mind spinning with questions. Why hadn’t the hospital taken Josh? Did they not think he had the money to pay for it? Weren’t hospitals supposed to treat people, anyway? Why couldn’t George just take a truck and go find him, bring him back home? Why didn’t Carson bring Josh back?

In the morning, the men smile and lie. They say the hospital kept Josh for treatment, and they’ll check in on him next time they’re in the area. They lie, and Barney plays along. He knows they won’t give him answers.

And he knows how bad Josh looked when they carefully tucked him into the cab of Carson’s truck.

When the circus took Barney and Clint in four years ago — when they ran like hell from their last foster home — Carson was the one who agreed to let them stay, a ten- and a twelve-year-old desperate for escape. But it was a 24-year-old Josh who helped Barney clean up. Who pushed him into a tiny trailer shower and told him to take as much time as he needed to get rid of the blood and the tears and the... the stench, the everything. Who talked to him, in the months afterward — quiet, careful conversations about monsters and men, shame and guilt, violence and recovery. About feeling right in his body again. About finding safety. Finding love.

Clint flinched away from every man on the circus lot, preferring to spend time with the younger kids, helping them with their chores and keeping them out of trouble. Barney stuck to Josh’s side, and learned everything he could. Maybe Carson was the one who took them in, but Josh was the one — with Jim, with George, with others — who made it safe for them to stay.

Barney listens to George and Jim’s platitudes. He leaves the trailer, tracks down Clint helping Jackie do her work rather than his own, opens his mouth to scream the truth... and finds himself repeating those same lies to his little brother.

Clint’s got to perform tonight. He can’t be more distracted than he already is, with Jackie on his mind and Trick on his back. Barney will tell him later.

People die. No use getting upset about it.

He rubs his chest, tries to dispel its odd ache, and gets to work.

*

Tuesday, March 1, 1988

*

All he wants is to make a little money.

Enough to pay for doctor visits for Jackie, whose pregnancy is not going as well or as safely as other girls in the circus had experienced. Gestational hypertension, the last doctor had called it, with high risk for preeclampsia.

(“Why is this happening to her?” Clint had asked, nosy as always.

“There are a few things that put her at higher risk,” the doctor had apparently said, according to Clint’s retelling. “This is her first pregnancy. It’s an adolescent pregnancy. And it’s more common in African American women. Do you have a family history of hypertension or preeclampsia?”

“No idea,” Jackie had said, and then wouldn’t say anything more.)

Being on the road, they can’t take her to the same doctor every time, nor manage to stop off at as many free clinics as they probably should. Barney and Clint both learn how to use the blood pressure cuff, and they all memorize the warning signs that’d mean it was time to drop everything and get Jackie to a hospital.

But hospitals are expensive. And all three of them know that Carson won’t pay when the time comes.

Clint deals with it by working harder than ever on his act, convinced if he’s good enough, prove himself valuable enough, then things will work out. Jackie takes on every sewing, mending, and repair job in the caravan that she could do while sitting down. She’s got a reputation for having an eye for detail and being good with her hands. It brings them a few extra dollars.

Barney figures it’ll be easy to skim a little off the circus’s ticket sales, the food and game vendors, everything. The tills are always off by a few bucks, after all. What were a few more?

He does the math. He makes sure to take odd amounts, never an even twenty or fifty. He’ll take a stack of dollars from one till and put half of them back in another. Some nights he’ll even dip back into his stash and set every cash bag a few dollars over. It’s the circus, after all. Money is difficult to track. And Carson isn’t that great with numbers (except when it comes to paying out).

Barney justifies it to himself that it isn’t stealing — it’s simply making sure his family is getting paid what they’re worth. It’s to take care of Jackie and Clint and their baby. The newest Barton.

(And maybe, maybe it’s to punish Carson for what he did to Josh all those years ago. But Barney doesn’t think about that anymore. He can’t. He refuses.)

*

Friday, July 1, 1988

*

Barney has a little more than two thousand dollars saved when Trickshot catches him. That’s when everything goes to hell.

“I’m doing some business in town tonight, and I need a set of helping hands,” Trick says, staring down at Barney from the doorway of Carson’s trailer with a gleam in his eye that Barney doesn’t like. No one was supposed to have been around. No one should have seen Barney in there, picking the lock to the cashbox. “Meet me at midnight on the north end of Main Street. Don’t tell anyone what you’re up to, and I won’t tell Carson about... this.”

Barney looks down at the cashbox and chews on the inside of his cheek, trying not to curse. He’d gotten sloppy, and complacent, and _stupid_. Who the fuck knew what Trick was going to drag him into? But what’s done is done, and there’s no getting out of this except to give a short nod. “Fine. Midnight.”

“You want to bring your brother along?” Trick asks, and Barney _hates_ him. Hates him for the power her has over Clint, for the things he could make Clint do if he wanted. Clint’s just a kid. “Could make a helluva lot of money, the three of us.”

Barney jerks his head up and glares, warning Trick off. “Fuck, no. This is between us. Keep the kid out of it.”

Trick snorts. “Have it your way,” he says, and steps out of the doorway and back out into the lot.

Barney leaves the cash the way he found it and locks the box back up. There’s no sense courting more bad luck.

He walks back to his own trailer, being extra careful not to be seen. Inside, Clint is dressed in that stupid, sparkly leotard and taking Jackie’s blood pressure one last time before the evening show begins. Purple sequins and a stethoscope. Ridiculous.

Barney jerks open the mini-fridge and pulls out a beer, popping the top and taking a few massive gulps. Trying to get his equilibrium back. He turns to find Clint and Jackie staring at him, Clint’s shaggy blond strands contrasting with Jackie’s tight black curls. “What?”

“Everything okay?” Clint asks carefully, pulling the ends of the stethoscope out of his ears to dangle around his neck. Always so fucking careful, this kid.

“Hurry up and turn eighteen so we can get the fuck out of here,” Barney says, turning away. He takes his beer back outside and sits on the back bumper of the truck, and waits.

A few minutes later, he hears Clint laugh, and the screen door slam shut. Seconds pass, and then Clint walks around the back and sits down next to him. He’s got peanut shells in his hair, and he looks like an idiot.

Barney passes him the can. He takes a sip and hands it back.

“Bailey’s kicking, if you want to go feel,” Clint offers, even though he knows Barney has never had any interest in doing shit like that.

“Fucking stupid name,” Barney mutters, instead.

“Hey,” Clint says, not for the first time. “We already had a Barnum. We needed a Bailey.”

“What we needed was for you to keep it in your fucking pants,” he snaps. “We would’a been out of here already.”

He could have pulled Clint out of the circus months ago. Could have enlisted, found a halfway-decent place to live and put Clint back in school where he belonged. That’d been his plan for the past few years, before something like what happened to Josh could happen to them.

Except Clint went and fucked it up by adding one — and pretty soon, two — more people to their little family, two more mouths to feed, and Barney’s done the math. One enlisted man’s salary can’t support two teenagers and an infant, especially not his first year in. Not if they all want to eat.

So here they are, stuck in Carson’s Circus. Working. Performing. Waiting. Having patience these days is hard enough, and now with Trick pulling shit and throwing a wrench in everything....

He’s not looking at Clint, but he can still sense the way his shoulders tighten and his head drops down. God, it’s frustrating. Barney’s not their dad. He’s not going to hurt the damn kid. Just... growl a bit.

“Whole world’s pissing me off today, feels like,” Barney says, finally. It’s not an apology. He passes Clint the beer again. That’s not an apology, either.

Clint takes the can and rolls it between his palms nervously. “Need me to do anything?”

Barney sighs. This kid. “Just... keep yourself out of trouble ‘till we can get out of here. Eleven more months, and we’re done.”

“But if I’m headlining—” Clint offers, and Barney has to shut him down. Why can’t Clint understand this?

“Headliners don’t last more than a few seasons in this business, and you should fucking know that.”

“My act is better than all the others, though,” Clint says. As if that matters. Even if it’s true. Clint’s got more talent than any other performance Barney’s ever seen. But that won’t matter.

“It’s not _that_ great,” Barney says, elbowing him. “It’s got your ugly face in it.”

Clint laughs at the jest, like he was supposed to, and his face brightens as he says, “Carson says that next year—”

And now Barney’s done, because whatever Carson says today has no bearing on what Carson does tomorrow, and Clint’s an idiot for believing otherwise. “Forget next year. The minute you’re eighteen, the four of us are fucking gone, Clint. That’s the plan. Get it through your thick skull.”

He grabs the beer back, finishes it, and throws the empty can on the ground, stomping it till it’s flat. Clint shoots him a dirty look he’s had perfected since he was thirteen and walks away, back toward the big top.

Barney lets out another sigh, but doesn’t relax.

At eighteen, Clint can enlist with him in whatever branch of the military will let them stay together. Get training, get paid, get out of this hellhole where you get dumped the minute you become a liability. Eighteen, and Child Protective Services can’t sink their claws into them, pull the Barton brothers apart. Eighteen, and it won’t matter anymore where they come from, because in the eyes of the law, they’ll be free adults.

Jackie will still be underage, but she’ll be a mother, and the law gives her more wiggle room to do as she pleases. Especially if she marries Clint, they’ll be able to take her and the baby with them.

Clint just has to make it to eighteen.

*

There’s blood on his face.

Barney can taste it in his mouth, feel it on his lips and cheeks.

Clint is falling, rolling down the stairs, and every crack of his bones against the concrete echoes through Barney’s brain, mixing with the sound of the gunshot until his mind fills with thunder and chaos.

There’s blood on his face. He was standing right next to Clint, arguing with him, telling him to go back to the circus, and not to follow any further. It’s not safe to get involved with whatever Trickshot’s planning.

“I’m going to tell—” Clint had said. Clint, fucking _stupid_ Clint, and he hadn’t even managed to say who he was going to tell, what he was going to tell them, before Trick took aim and pulled the trigger.

There’s blood on his face, and he was standing right next to Clint, and there was a hole in Clint’s chest and red blood spraying out onto his white t-shirt, and he’s lying face-down at the bottom of the concrete stairs, and he’s not moving.

Barney hears thunder. It’s a cloudless night, but he hears thunder echo across the sky and inside his head.

Then he hears a click. Barney swings his head around to find the source of the sound. Trick. Trick, still holding the gun. There’s a drop of blood on his hand. He’s ten feet away. He killed Clint from ten feet away, but there’s still blood on his hands.

“You want to join him down there?” Trick asks, like he’s expecting Barney to lunge at him at any moment.

Fucking idiot. Like Barney could win against him right now, no weapon, air locked up tight in his lungs and a distant roaring in his ears. A roaring, a crashing, and a wailing.

Seconds pass (maybe hours, maybe days). The wailing turns into sirens. Trick tilts his head to the side, takes a few steps back. The gun doesn’t waver. “You tell the cops what I did, and I’ll come back for that pretty little girl of his. You hear me?”

Barney believes the threat. Trick hated Jackie and anyone else who took Clint’s attention away from his act. Trick has a gun, and Jackie can’t run far these days. He nods.

“See you around, kid,” Trick says, and then the goddamn bastard salutes him with the fucking gun he killed Clint with, before turning on his heel and running down the street to where his truck is parked.

The sirens get louder as Trick peels off down the street. Barney doesn’t look down at the base of the stairs again, at the body. He runs.

It’s just under three miles to the field where the circus is set up, and Barney doesn’t stop until he’s crashing up Carson’s trailer steps and pounding on the door, heaving air into his aching chest. Somewhere in those three miles, the thunder faded away and resolve set in. He’s gotta be fucking smart about this. He’s gotta protect what he has left.

“The hell, Barton?” Carson asks, opening the door and pulling Barney inside. “What are you doing causing a ruckus this time of—”

Barney winces as the light from the lamps hits his eyes, and he sits blindly when Carson pushes him into a chair. He wipes his hand across his face, and that’s when he remembers the blood. He looks down at his hand. A wet dishrag is placed on his palm.

“Y’get in a fight, son?” Carson asks. “I hope you won.”

He shakes his head and brings the cloth up to his face. Once he gets his lungs back, he begins, “I was with Trick. He wanted me to help him rob some houses in town.”

“Why the hell did you agree to such a stupid idea?” Carson asks heatedly.

“Because he said if I didn’t do it, he’d make Clint do it,” Barney lies. He’ll just... he’ll lie just enough to keep them all safe. He’ll do what he has to do. “I had to do it. Clint can’t— couldn’t— couldn’t get caught up with that sort of shit. Clint came anyway, followed me or something, tried to warn me off, and Trick— he—”

He catches his breath and stares down at the now-stained rag. Can’t look at Carson when he says, “Clint’s dead. Trick shot him. Said he’d go after circus folk if I told the cops what he did. So I ran back here.”

He risks a glance back up. Carson’s face is set, his jaw tight, and after a moment he shakes his head. “Should’a known he’d kill somebody someday. Didn’t ever think it’d be one of the kids.”

Carson stand and leans out the trailer door to holler, “George! Jim! Tyrone! Get in here!”

He turns back to Barney, “We’re bugging out. Can’t have the cops crawling all over the lot lookin’ for someone to blame. It’d be the end of us. Get your shit packed up and get ready to move out with the first group in twenty minutes.”

Barney nods and stands. He brushes past Carson as he steps through the door, and Carson stops him with a hand on his shoulder. “I’m sorry about your brother. He was a good kid.”

The gesture burns, and Barney shrugs his hand off. “People die. It happens.”

He storms away, passing George, Jim and Tyrone as they head into Carson’s trailer, shooting him curious looks on the way. They can have the tents and stalls and stands packed away in under three hours if the situation calls for it, and this one certainly does.

Barney gets to their camper and starts grabbing up all the detritus of their lives that’s been sitting outside for the week they’ve been in this town. Shoes, buckets, Clint’s costume hanging on a line, useless and sparkly and still, still smelling like him. He pulls the door open and deposits an armload just inside, then heads back out for the rest.

Jackie sits up in the folding bed she shares — shared — with Clint. She calls out, sleepily, “Clint? Barney? What are you doing? What’s going on?”

Barney steps back inside with the three folding lawn chairs and throws them on his bed in the loft. He won’t be sleeping tonight, anyway. He can clean things up later.

“Barney? What’s up?”

“We’re bugging out,” Barney tells her, slamming cabinets closed and locking them for the drive. “Put your shit away, we gotta go.”

She sits up all the way and turns to dangle her feet over the side of the bed. She’s wearing one of Clint’s t-shirts, with the extra panels she sewed into the sides to make room for her belly. Clint won’t be needing it back, now.

“Where’s Clint?” she asks, looking around and behind him toward the door.

“Come on Jack, get your fuckin’— put your fuckin’ shoes on—”

“They’re too small, my feet are too swollen, now where is Clint?”

Barney spins to face her. She’s standing now, feet planted on the floor, both hands fisted on her hips, and even without the scowl he could tell she’s getting pissed. She hates being kept in the dark, not knowing things. “Barney Barton, where the hell is your brother?”

If Barney were a better person — if he knew how to say the right things, say them the right way — he’d be sensitive about this. He’d be kind. But he’s not any of those things. So he just picks up his sweatshirt, shrugs it on, and doesn’t look Jackie in the eye when he says, “Clint’s dead.”

He sees her sit back down on the bed. “What do you mean, Clint’s not—”

“Trick killed him,” Barney explains, wishing he could lie to her just this once. She’s never let him get away with it, she knows him too well. “Shot him in the chest. He’s dead. Cops have his body, now.”

She sucks in a sharp breath and raises her hand to cover her mouth. “Clint’s...”

Barney shakes his head. It’s almost twenty minutes. It’s time to _go_. “I know, Jack, I know, but—”

“Barney...” she starts, hand dropping. He can hear her breath getting tight, and he has to stop it, he doesn’t have time for this.

“ _I know_ , but there’ll be cops crawling all over the place if we don’t go now. You want them to find you? You want them to take you? You want them to send you _back?_ “

“No,” Jackie says faintly, chin trembling.

“Then get in the fucking cab!” He knows he’ll pay for this later. When the shock wears off. When Jackie recovers enough to start asking questions, he knows he’ll be in for it, like he has every time they’ve clashed (over Clint, always Clint, never again Clint).

They buckle in and join the caravan of trucks, trailers, and campers heading south. Jackie sits in the passenger seat (Clint’s seat), seat belt tucked down underneath her belly, and glares out the window at the darkness. Every few minutes, she raises her hand to wipe at her eyes and nose. Barney ignores her tears and concentrates on driving.

They drive through the night and into the morning, and they don’t stop until they reach Lexington, with Akron and Clint and the stairway stained with blood hundreds of miles behind them.

Jackie doesn’t speak to him. The sky is blue and the sun is shining, and all Barney can hear is thunder.

*

Early July is hot and humid, with few clouds and little rainfall to beat the heat. The hotter-than-average weather makes everyone sticky and miserable. Jackie, going on nine months pregnant now, spends the days sitting on a folding chair in the shade of the camper’s awning, with a metal fan propped up on a cement block at her feet. She spends a lot of time staring at the fan, work forgotten in her lap. One of the acrobats, Missy, rips the sleeve nearly completely off her costume — intentionally, Barney suspects — and it takes Jackie nearly two days to fix it. Missy doesn’t complain. Everyone is worried.

Barney tells Jackie what happened — the full truth, not the half-lies he told Carson and the rest of the circus — and after two hours of screaming at him, she stops speaking to him entirely.

Barney throws himself into his work: setting up tents and platforms, hauling supplies, clearing trash, anything physical that will keep his mind in the here and now where it belongs. He takes Jackie’s blood pressure twice a day, still, and lets her silent judgment sit on him every time. He knows she has every right to it.

He resented her for months, but Clint had loved her. Wouldn’t shut up about her eyes, her hair, her soft skin, her delicate hands. Begged Barney to change the plan to include her. And Barney did, grudgingly, under protest. Because it made Clint happy.

His plan is ruined, and he doesn’t know what to do. He was waiting for Clint to turn eighteen, but that’s never going to happen. He’ll be seventeen forever, an unclaimed John Doe in a morgue, buried somewhere in a nameless grave.

Bailey will be born without a father.

God, Clint had been so excited about that baby. Barney thought he’d been a damned idiot, and told him so. But Clint wanted it so badly. Was ready to pour his heart and soul into being a father, a far better father than the ones they’d been given by birth and by the state.

Barney can’t do that. He can’t marry Jackie (for so, so many reasons). He can’t be a father for Bailey. He had just barely come around to the idea of being an uncle. But he also can’t leave either of them alone. Not now that Clint is... gone.

His chest hurts, and he rubs it absently. He doesn’t know what to do.

*

Saturday, July 23, 1988

*

Jackie makes it three more weeks. After so much silence, the first words she says to Barney come at four in the morning. She calls his name, and when he finally emerges from exhausted, restless sleep, she says, “We gotta go. I think... I think it’s happening. I think it’s time.”

Barney rolls out of the loft and barely lands on his feet, staggering a bit until he gets his balance. “Now? You’re in labor?”

Jackie hisses a breath out between her teeth and clenches her hand in the blankets. She’s still lying down, curled up on her side. He can barely see her in the dark. “Yeah. I think this is it.”

“Okay,” Barney says. He rubs his face with his hands to try and wake himself up. Jackie... Labor... Preeclampsia— right. “Lemme get your blood pressure, and then we’ll go.”

He helps her sit up and then pulls out the equipment. Her pressure’s high, of course. It’s been high for months. But not this high. “Alright. Into the front. Let’s go.”

Jackie eases herself into the passenger seat of the camper and buckles in while Barney runs across the way to George and Jim’s trailer. He pounds on the door.

“What’s going on?” Jim calls through the window.

“Jackie’s in labor. I’m taking her to the hospital.”

“Get going then,” George yells.

“Good luck to our girl,” Jim adds, and then Barney’s running back across the grass and climbing into the driver’s seat.

“Go,” Jackie says.

It only takes them twenty minutes to get to the local hospital, because Barney’s been mapping out and memorizing the driving routes for every town the circus stops in. He guides Jackie into the ER and sits her down in the most comfortable-looking chair, expecting a lengthy wait before they’ll take her up to the labor and delivery ward.

As soon as he brings up the words “gestational hypertension” and “preeclampsia,” though, there’s a sudden rush of medical personnel surrounding Jackie. They’ve got her settled in a wheelchair and rolling through the doors in the back within two shakes.

Someone else leads him to a nicer waiting room on the second floor. “We’ll keep you updated on your girlfriend’s progress,” the L and D reception nurse, Linda, tells him.

“I’m not— She’s not—” Barney says, suddenly awkward. “I’m not the father. I’m the uncle.”

Linda blinks at him, and then just says, “Okay.”

As she turns away, Barney jumps back to his feet and says, “Wait, you should know. The father — my brother — he died. In an accident, a few weeks ago. That’s, that’s why he’s not here. Otherwise, he would be.”

Linda smiles at him more gently this time. “I’m sorry for your loss. I’ll let the doctors know, so they can be mindful with Jackie. Okay?”

Barney lets out a long breath, embarrassed by his sudden defensiveness on Clint’s behalf. “Okay. Yeah. Thanks.”

Linda leaves, and Barney settles into a chair to wait. He turns on the television mounted to the wall in the corner, and lets the early morning news wash over him. “ _The U.S. Food and Drug Administration announced today that it will allow the importation of small quantities of unapproved drugs for persons with life-threatening illnesses, including HIV and AIDS... More on this story..._ “

After 16 hours of labor, Bailey is born just after nine o’clock in the evening on the twenty-third of July. A different nurse, Pamela, comes in to let Barney know. She doesn’t give any medical details, just little facts that people seem to care about: A boy. Eighteen and a half inches. Six pounds, five ounces. Ten fingers and ten toes.

“Is he okay, though?” he asks, brushing the bullshit aside. “Is Jackie okay?”

This nurse’s smile is a little less sincere. “They’re both tired, but fine. Jackie’s asleep right now. If you want to go home and get some rest, you can come back at nine tomorrow morning for a visit.”

Barney doesn’t have a home; he has a camper parked at the far end of the hospital parking lot. But he gets the hint — he’s not the father, and they want him out of their hair.

“Thanks,” he says, and heads for the exit.

*

Sunday, July 24, 1988

*

When the nurse gently places Bailey in his arms, Barney’s glad he washed and put on a clean t-shirt. Eighteen inches and six-odd pounds is _tiny_. The sleeping baby squishes his face up for a moment, gives a little wiggle, and then relaxes against Barney’s chest with a sign.

He’s tiny and brown and has Clint’s nose.

Sitting there holding his day-old nephew, Barney realizes the pain in his chest over the past few weeks has been a broken heart, plain and simple. It hurts. Looking down at Bailey both makes it hurt worse, and makes it hurt... different. Not better. Not healed. But like... a broken bowl that’s had its cracks sealed up with gold.

Maybe he _can_ do this.

Jackie wakes up and feeds Bailey, and then the nurses come and take him back to the nursery. Jackie looks rumpled and exhausted, but her eyes are clearer than they’ve been in weeks. They look resolved. Barney hopes that whatever she’s decided is a good thing.

“How’re you feeling?” he asks gruffly, arms feeling oddly empty. He wonders if she’ll go back to the silent treatment now that the crisis of labor and delivery has passed.

“Tired. Sore. But okay,” she says. Barney can’t get a read on her.

“They say when they’re gonna let you two out of here?” he asks. “Caravan’s headed to Indianapolis tomorrow.”

“Another day or so, they said.”

And then Jackie levels him with that look. The one that he knows means trouble, means she knows she’s about to piss him off and she doesn’t give a shit. On one hand, it’s refreshing, and almost comforting, to be on the receiving end of that familiar glare again. On the other hand, he’s not sure what kind of trouble she could have possibly gotten into in the last day or so. She’s been kind of busy.

“What is it?” he finally asks.

“I’m not going to Indianapolis,” she states. “I’m leaving the circus.”

Barney takes that in. “You’re leaving—” he doesn’t say _me,_ there is no _me_ for Jackie, there is no reason for Jackie to keep him around, “—and going where?”

She keeps looking at him. “I got a cousin in Chicago. I figure I’ll look her up and see if she’s got room for me to stay a spell.”

Barney looks away. “Your cousin any good with babies?”

“Barney,” she says, like he’s an idiot. Maybe he is.

He glances back over at her. “What?”

“I’m not taking the baby with me,” she says, and her voice is resolved the same way her eyes are. “I’m giving him to the state.”

“When did you decide to do this?” Barney demands, more harshly than he should probably say anything to a woman who’d given birth not eighteen hours ago. “Was this your plan the whole time? You were gonna string Clint along and then dump everyone and run off?”

“Shut up, Barney,” Jackie snaps, delicate hands clenched in the bedcovers. “Clint is dead. Everything’s different.”

Barney collapses back into his chair, all his strings cut.

Clint is dead. Everything _is_ different.

“I can’t stay at the circus,” she continues, obviously trying hard to keep her voice even. “He’s everywhere. I can’t look at the tents or the trailers without seeing him, or expecting him to walk by. I keep rolling over in bed at night, reaching for him. I have to... I need distance.”

“And the baby?” Barney asks.

Jackie shakes her head. “Clint was so... I knew that with him around, it was going to be okay. He was so excited. I can’t— I can’t do this without him. I can’t.”

“So you’re gonna give him to the state. The _last_ thing Clint would’a wanted.”

The glare comes back, briefly. “Newborns get adopted, Barney. It’s the older kids like us who don’t. You know that.”

Barney does know that.

“He’ll be fine,” she says, quietly, finally looking away again. A tear leaks out the corner of her eye.

Clint gave Barney hell the last time he made Jackie cry, and he feels suddenly, overwhelmingly guilty for doing it again and again these past few weeks. Jackie doesn’t deserve this. Nobody does.

Barney doesn’t say anything. Just sits there in the chair next to the bed and stares absently out the window. He rubs his chest.

That night, he gives Jackie the two grand he had saved and drives to Indianapolis, alone, without a plan.

*

Thursday, August 11, 1988

*

It’s a joke. It’s got to be a joke. It’s got to be Trickshot, taunting him from afar.

There’s no fucking way that this letter came from Clint.

It’s made out to Carson, and comes to the post office box he keeps in St. Louis. The unfamiliar handwriting just says, “ _Tell Barney to come and get me. —Clint._ “ It lists the address of a hospital in Cleveland.

Jesus.

 _Jesus_.

He drives to the nearest pay phone and scours the camper for quarters. A long-distance call to the hospital in question has Barney talking to a nurse named Jessie, who can’t confirm any details except, “Yes, I have a Clint Barton here. He was brought in in the early morning of July second.”

“Jesus Christ,” Barney rasps, barely able to catch his breath. The pain in his heart is piercing in its intensity. “He was— he was shot in the chest, how the hell is— is he okay?”

Jessie’s voice is calm and even, and Barney appreciates that, even as she says, “He was hurt very badly. He has a long road ahead of him, but he’s strong.”

This stops Barney short. “Has he— has he _woken up?_ “

“Oh yes,” she says, and a smile enters her voice. “He’s a good boy. And very charming, whenever he forgets to be grumpy at us. But he’s been lonely.”

He lets out a breath, finally. “You’re sure he’s okay?”

There’s a shuffling sound, and then the nurse says, “I’m looking at him right now. He’s down at the end of the ward, sitting up in bed drinking an orange juice. He had lunch an hour ago and ate the whole thing even though he didn’t seem to care for it. Does that help, honey?”

“Yeah,” Barney says. “That helps. Thanks. I’ll— How soon can he be released?”

“That will be up to his doctors,” Jessie says. “You’ll have to talk to them when you get here.”

“I’ll get there as soon as I can,” Barney promises, and hangs up.

Jesus.

Barney staggers away from the pay phone and leans up against his camper. He rubs his face, remembering the blood, the iron taste of it, the way it stained his clothes, and how he ended up burning that t-shirt because he couldn’t get the blood out.

Clint is _alive_.

Barney didn’t— Barney didn’t get him killed. He’s alive. But he’s hurt. It’s been ten weeks and he’s still in the hospital, _a long road ahead of him_ , the nurse said.

Jackie’s disappeared, Bailey’s gone, but _Clint_.

 _Alive_.

*

Saturday, August 13, 1988

*

Carson gives him fifty bucks. Missy gives him ten. George and Jim each give him a twenty. That’s enough to get him and his empty camper across five hundred miles and three states to the hospital where Clint is.

He parks in the lot. Gets directions from the receptionist. Takes the stairs rather than wait for the elevator, and then he stalls out the moment he steps into the general ward and sees Clint.

It’s just like when they were kids. When their dad would throw Clint too hard, hurt him too badly to just tuck him into bed for a few days and claim the flu. He’s laying in a bed, covered in crisp white sheets and a light blue blanket. One leg is casted, propped up on a foam pad and strapped into place so it can’t move. Both wrists are bandaged.

And Clint is so pale. His eyes are lidded and unfocused, and he’s so pale, and he’s not moving—

“Oh my god,” Barney mutters, stepping closer. This is a hospital, Clint was supposed to be on the mend, wouldn’t they have noticed—?

He gets to the foot of the bed, and that’s when Clint blinks and turns to look at him confusedly.

“Oh, fuck,” Barney says to him. “You’re alive, you’re— I, I can’t—”

He backs away, and Clint calls his name, and he freezes. Because he knows — he hasn’t heard that tone in Clint’s voice in years. Not since the last time Dad sent Clint to the hospital, when Clint had been deafened, and sent to special classes, and six months later their parents were dead in a drunk driving crash, and everything they had was lost.

(It wasn’t the deafness that was the problem — Clint adapted quickly, was brilliant at sign. It was everything else that happened afterward. That’s where it all went wrong.)

He spins around. Asks questions. Watches Clint fiddle with the hearing aids. Soaks in the sound of his brother’s voice ( _alive!)_ as they update each other, snap at each other ( _alive_!), fight over stupid things the same way they’ve been fighting their entire lives ( _alive_!).

The problem is...

“They said they’re going to put me back into the system if I stay here!”

( _Alive_!)

The problem is...

“I need to go home, find Jackie and Bailey, you gotta get me out of here!”

( _Take him home_!)

Barney thinks about the cramped little bed in the camper, and the narrow aisle through the center to the tiny toilet room. He thinks about the dust and the grit and the grime, and the red marks in Clint’s arms where an IV has recently been. He thinks about, _He was hurt very badly. He has a long road ahead of him_.

He thinks about Josh, wasting away, too sick to get up off the couch.

He thinks about Trickshot, and his easy, careless threats.

“I don’t want to stay here!” Clint shouts, pure terror in his face, because he knows what the system is like. But the system can give him medicine. Therapy. A place to stay, to recover, to heal. This time, it can _help_.

“Too fucking bad,” Barney shouts back, and it’s killing him, but he’s got to say it, for once he’s got to get Clint to _not follow_ , he’s got to keep him _safe_. “I’m your brother and you’ll do like I tell you.”

( _Alive_!)

( _Take him home_!)

“You’re staying right where you are, and if I catch you trying to come back, I will end you.”

He stands, sees the shot hit Clint just the way it’s supposed to. His chest is burning, he hates this, he hates himself, he despises this entire fucking situation, but he’s got to _keep Clint alive_.

He stalks out the door, ignoring Clint’s cries for him to come back. He retraces his steps through the hospital, down the stairs, and out to the camper, slamming his way inside.

“Fuck!” he shouts, too loudly for a public parking lot in the middle of the day, but he doesn’t care. Fuck!”

He kicks the bottom door of the cupboard across from Clint’s — Jackie’s — no one’s — bed. Kicks it and kicks it until the paneling chips, and then cracks, and then his foot breaks through, and the door falls off its hinges and shatters on the floor.

Barney sits on the bed and, for the first time since Josh died, sobs.

*

There’s a Navy recruitment office in Cleveland.

George was a Navy veteran. He’d talked a little bit about it with Barney, years ago, said it was as good a place as any to go. Barney’s never seen the ocean. Never been out of the Midwest.

When his placement exam scores come back and shock the hell out of the recruiter, he offers Barney a spot. A chance.

Clint will age out of the foster system in a year. Maybe that will be enough time for the sting to fade, for him to understand what Barney was trying to do. Barney can find him again, then.

He sells the camper, drops a note in the mail to Carson, and reports to RTC Great Lakes for boot camp.

*


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many thanks to Laura Kaye, Westgate and shell for their awesome beta awesomeness!
> 
> Warnings in this chapter are for:
> 
> \- Military-specific homophobia and homophobic policies  
> \- Homophobic language, including brief use of a homophobic slur  
> \- Graphic bodily injury in nightmare form  
> \- Graphic violence between romantic partners  
> \- Implied terminal (at the time) illness

*

Monday, October 10, 1988

*

Barney sees Robbie Scott his first day on the ship, and he falls _hard_.

He hasn’t had a date in months — not since Toledo, with a brown-eyed boy named Russell who had rough, calloused hands and a gentle grip. Robbie is thin and wiry, with dark hair and deep eyes; he looks a little bit like Freddie Mercury, and Barney can’t tear his gaze away.

His crewmate, Kevane, who looks like Denzel Washington if Denzel was a total jerk, elbows him in the side. “Eyes front, soldier,” he whispers with a smirk.

Barney shifts his focus to stare at Kevane, stomach flipping with sudden anxiety. “What?”

“I’ll introduce you to him later,” Kevane promises, the smirk giving way to a real smile. Barney’s stomach settles a bit at the look.

“Is he…” Barney starts to ask, then stops. Being gay in the Navy is a helluva lot different from being gay in the circus. There’s no George and Jim, now. No Josh. Just stolen glances, quirked eyebrows, half-serious innuendos, and an all-encompassing fear that if you get caught by the wrong person, the least you have to worry about is getting the shit kicked out of you.

The Command Master Chief of their ship — the guy in charge of all the enlisted — is rumored to be even more of an asshole about that kind of thing than the rest of the upper ranks (and that’s an accomplishment).

So Barney focuses back on the Captain’s speech — welcoming the newest members of the crew aboard and reminding them of their place — and tries not to glance over at Ensign Scott again.

*

Sunday, January 22, 1989

*

“Hey,” Ensign Scott says, meeting Barney’s eyes for about two seconds longer than could really be considered appropriate.

Barney sets down the GED study guide he’d bought the last time they went ashore. He can get promoted faster with a diploma under his belt, have higher rank and better pay when he goes to find Clint again. But studying can’t really hold his interest when Robbie is standing in front of him, all lean muscle and hooded eyes.

“Hey,” he says back, palms suddenly sweaty. He sticks his hands in his pockets as he leans back in his chair to give Robbie his full attention.

“What time’s your shift over?” Robbie asks, gaze intense. They’ve eaten lunch together a couple of times, Kevane by turns laughing at them and playing matchmaker. Robbie’s responded to him, smiled at him, but he’s never sought him out alone before.

Barney glances at the clock. “Half an hour left. Why?”

Robbie lifts one shoulder in a shrug and turns to lean against the wall, all casual. “I gotta do some maintenance work down in 210C. Work on some pipes.”

Shocked, Barney stares at him. Partly at the fact that Robbie is clearly coming onto him, partly at how he’s doing it so _badly._ Then again, Barney’s go-to line with the boys at the circus used to be, _Wanna go screw around behind the big top?_ So maybe he shouldn’t judge.

Robbie isn’t looking at him, but his whole body screams anticipation, expectation, and no small amount of fear. Robbie, who’s from Missouri and knows what it’s like to drive for hours and never see anything but cows and corn. Robbie, who writes his mother and sister once a week to tell them he’s fine. Robbie, who bites his lower lip when he’s concentrating on a problem and laughs in triumph when he finally figures it out.

“Yeah,” Barney says, answering the question Robbie hadn’t asked, letting a smirk pull at the corner of his mouth. “I’m sure you’ll have a lot of fun down there.”

Robbie doesn’t laugh in triumph. He just pulls his body away from the wall and says, “Later, then.”

“Later,” Barney replies, matching his casual tone, and watches as Robbie walks out of the room.

“Subtle,” the seaman at the next station comments.

“Shut up,” Barney snaps, and refocuses on his book.

The last thirty minutes of his shift drag after that. 210C is one of the places on the ship Kevane recommended to him — quiet, out-of-the-way, full of storage and labyrinthine shelving shelving that made it a better-than-average location for fooling around without getting caught by someone who’ll give a damn. Maybe some poor seaman, who’ll bitch and moan about his eyes. But no one who matters.

*

Robbie is…

Robbie is so…

Robbie is so, so…

He grabs Barney the moment he walks in the door, four minutes after his shift ends, and drags him down rows of shelving and past a stack of plastic-wrapped pallets to a dark corner, where he suddenly stops.

“We good?” Barney asks after a still moment. He wants to get laid, but not so much that he’ll risk getting caught.

Robbie turns, shooting him a cocky grin through the blush staining his cheeks pink. “Ask me again in ten minutes.”

“Only ten?” Barney shoots back, relaxing a bit.

Robbie laughs, and Barney lets himself smile, because he caused that, he made Robbie happy. He reaches out, tucks his hand on the back of Robbie’s neck, and pulls him in slowly for a kiss.

Fifteen minutes later, Barney pulls a handful of tissues out of his pocket to help them clean up.

“Always thinking ahead,” Robbie says, rolling his eyes as he tucks himself back into his uniform pants. Barney wants to pin him against the shelves and have him again. Anything to get him to stop asking awkward questions and go back to biting his lip to hold in his moans.

Instead, he shrugs and replies, “Only way to know what’s ahead is to think about it.”

“You ever do anything without thinking about all the angles first?” Robbie asks.

Barney glances around at their surroundings, at the shelves, at their soiled hands, and states, “You.”

Robbie looks at him oddly. “I don’t know whether to feel charmed, or insulted.”

Shrugging, Barney stuffs the wad of now-sticky tissues back in his pocket. He glances up after a moment to find Robbie still looking at him, uncertain, so he leans forward and kisses him. He does it gently, and pulls back slowly.

“Sex used to scare me,” he confesses, voice low. This is something he’s said before, to other lovers, before or after, and it’s easy to say now. To let Robbie know. “It can hurt people. But it can make people happy, too. So now I work hard on the happy part.”

He thinks for a moment about Josh’s quiet talks about love and sex while working in the circus tents, or walking on side roads in small country towns, or huddled on the couch in George and Jim’s trailer. He thinks about his teenage fumblings with boys he met on the road, trying to replace terrible memories with better ones. “No matter how bad everything around me gets…this can be something good.”

He reaches out and draws a line down Robbie’s throat with the pad of his thumb. “So when I want to do it, I do it.”

Robbie swallows, his expression shifting from confusion to concern, and then back to that blush and shy smile. “You got a way with words, Barton.”

“Maybe next time you’ll find out what else my mouth can do, Scott,” Barney says.

Robbie shakes his head, chuckling. He steps forward, pressing a last kiss to Barney’s mouth, and then walks away.

“Next time,” he calls back over his shoulder. Barney smiles at the promise, and finishes getting cleaned up.

*

_Clint is falling, rolling down the stairs, a hole in his chest bleeding bright red. Every crack of his bones against the concrete echoes through Barney’s brain, mixing with the sound of the gunshot until his mind fills with thunder and chaos._

_Barney screams. Moves. He runs down the stairs. Falls to his knees beside his brother, gasping breaths, crying in anguish, everything he feels on stark display for the world to see._

_He rolls the body over. It’s not Clint. It’s Robbie, his eyes open and sightless._

_Blood gushes out a hole in Robbie’s chest. Barney presses his hands down on it, hard, trying to stop the bleeding. It seeps out beneath his hands, spreads out on the concrete, soaks into the knees of his jeans._

_He can’t stop it._

Barney snaps awake to the sound of waves crashing into the sides of the ship.

Just a storm.

He’s covered in sweat, stomach churning, and his head is killing him. He rolls over onto his back, takes a deep breath, and closes his eyes again, trying to find peace in the darkness.

Just a dream. It was just a dream.

*

Monday, January 23, 1989

*

“Oh, thank god,” Kevane says when Barney and Robbie reach his table at breakfast the next day. They haven’t said a thing to anyone about hooking up in a glorified supply closet, but somehow Kevane knows. “I thought I was gonna have to lock you two in a closet somewhere.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Barney replies, digging into his eggs with more gusto than he really feels, still unsettled by his nightmare. He doesn’t look over at Robbie. Robbie is fine. _Clint_ is fine, or will be, once Barney finds him again, finds a way to start sending him checks. Everyone is fine.

“Yeah, right,” Kevane replies. Barney kicks him under the table, playing along, but all Kevane does is laugh harder.

*

Saturday, August 12, 1989

*

They get shore leave, and Kevane drags them and a few others to a gay bar he knows.

A bar. Just for guys like him, to feel safe. To be together.

It’s the first time Barney realizes that being gay is more than a thing you are — there is a community. There are people who get together, in more than groups of just three or four, but in tens and twenties and hundreds. And no one bats an eyelash or calls the cops or tries to turn a beer bottle into a weapon.

They needed to open a few of these in the Midwest. Think of the difference it could make to guys like Barney, like Russell, like Josh.

Barney spends most of the night on a barstool, absorbing the atmosphere and watching Robbie, Kevane and Todd Jablonsky live it up in the dance floor. They’re all in civilian clothes for once, and Robbie is in a v-neck t-shirt that clings to his muscles, getting tighter the more he dances and sweats.

The DJ plays Queen, and the dancers on the floor go _wild_. “ _Scaramouche scaramouche will you do the fandango?_ ” they sing, arms wrapped around strangers as they absorb the music, Josh’s favorite song. Barney stays on his stool, watching and absorbing it all.

A little after midnight, Todd takes a break to visit the bar and Barney. He orders a Miller Genuine Draft and then leans over and says, “I’ve got Zajicek, if you wanna take Scott and get out of here.”

Kevane chooses that very moment to stagger out of the crowd and drape himself across Todd’s back.

Oh.

Kevane takes a swig of Todd’s beer and then asks, “Are you telling him to take Robbie back to the hotel and get him naked?”

“I was trying,” Todd says wryly, stealing the beer back and muttering, “Get your own!”

“Barneyyyyy,” Kevane leers, then breaks it with a laugh. “Robbie wants naked time with youuuu!”

Barney rolls his eyes at him and glances over to the dance floor, bouncing to the beat of David Bowie. Robbie is still dancing, and doing something with his hips that’s probably illegal in half the Midwest. Barney feels hot all over, blames it on the temperature in the bar. He pushes away his half-finished glass of Old Milwaukee and stands up, ignoring Kevane’s cheers from where he’s now seated on Todd’s lap (and no one cares, Jesus, this is different, this is amazing).

He weaves his way through the crowd until he’s standing right behind Robbie, and then reaches out to trace his fingers down his spine. Robbie turns, and the way his face lights up when he sees him makes his stomach feel like it’s full of acrobats and tumblers.

_Let the children lose it_ __  
_Let the children use it_ _  
_ _Let all the children boogie_

Robbie loops his arms around Barney’s neck and leans against him. “Hey. Never thought I’d see you out here.”

“Wanna go back to the room?” Barney asks, skimming his hands up Robbie’s sides, not knowing where to touch, wanting to touch everywhere.

Robbie presses even closer, making flames dance up and down Barney’s body, and whispers in his ear, “Thought you’d never ask.”

*

“You think you’re gonna stay Navy?” Robbie asks in the still hours of the morning, when the sweat on their skin has cooled and they’ve burrowed under the covers together. His head is resting on Barney’s chest, fingers idly tracing the cheap circus tattoo over his heart. He hasn’t asked about its meaning, yet.

“Think I should defect to the Marines?” Barney asks, teasing gently.

“Barney!”

“Nah, those guys are all assholes.” He tightens his arm around Robbie’s shoulders and thinks, for a moment, about the responsibilities waiting for him in Cleveland. “Navy’s a good deal. Guaranteed job, guaranteed pay, guaranteed medical care even if it’s shitty care with dull needles. Can’t see why I’d leave. What about you?”

“I wanna be captain of a ship someday,” Robbie confesses into Barney’s chest, like he’s never said it aloud before. He might not have.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah,” Robbie says. He glances up at Barney’s face, seems to find confidence there to go on. “Doesn’t have to be a big one. Just gotta get it, so I can have a picture taken of me in my uniform. Hang it on the wall of my house so my mama can point it out to visitors and say, ‘That’s my son, Captain of the USS Luke Skywalker.’”

Barney snorts a laugh he can’t help. “Not sure I know that ship.”

“It’s the best,” Robbie says, and then he closes his eyes and falls asleep, glitter from the bar still sprinkled in his hair.

Barney stays awake, and thinks about planning, and dreams, and how it all can come crashing down. He doesn’t want that to happen to Robbie, wants to keep him safe so that he can become captain of ship, can give his mother bragging rights, can send money home to help take care of his sister. If the world was fair, Robbie would be able to do those things.

Barney wishes the world was fair. Josh would be alive. Clint would have Jackie and Bailey. Trick would be locked in a moldy cell.

Barney would have…he doesn’t know. Doesn’t know what he’d deserve. But he knows what Robbie deserves.

“I’ll help you get your ship, Captain Scott,” Barney whispers, brushing his fingers through Robbie’s hair, trailing down to stroke his neck. Robbie sighs, and cuddles closer.

*

Sunday, August 13, 1989

*

“I hate you all,” Kevane says from behind dark sunglasses, a giant paper coffee cup clenched in his hand, as they make their way back to the ship the next morning.

“No one _made_ you drink that much,” Robbie says. He’d washed all the glitter off this morning, but his smile still sparkles when he looks at Barney. It was a good night for them. Sex and connection and promises made in the dark.

“I was toasting your naked time,” Kevane grumbles, and leans into Todd’s side. Todd holds him up easily. “I toasted your naked time so much, I passed out and missed out on _my_ naked time. I hope you’re happy.”

Barney watches Robbie smile, and reply, “Very.”

*

Saturday, November 24, 1990

*

They make a tradition out of it. Every time they have shore leave, the four of them — Barney, Robbie, Kevane, and Todd — spend as many hours as they can in the closest gay bar before spending a few precious hours more in the closest hotel. They become regulars in a few places, where the staff remember their names and drink orders, and put Queen on the stereo when they walk in.

Barney starts looking forward to those weekends with every moment he spends on the ship under CMC Mitchell’s critical eye.  

It takes more than a year before Robbie asks about the tattoo on the left side of Barney's chest: the letters done in cheap green ink with Tyrone’s amateur kit in the back of his trailer. Inked a few nights after the shooting, before anyone knew Clint had survived. Back when Barney thought he was the only Barton left.

_Clinton Francis Barton_ _  
_ _6/18/71 ~ 7/1/88_

“It’s my brother,” Barney says, long minutes after the question is first posed.

“Oh,” Robbie says quietly, hand stilling, no longer tracing the letters. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be,” Barney says. He reaches up to link his fingers with Robbie’s, squeezes tight so he can continue. “It was...it was a mistake. Mistaken identity. We didn’t know for a long while. But he’s alive, and he’s safe.”

Robbie’s eyebrows furrow, and he bites his lip. He asks, “So why don’t you get it changed? If he’s still alive?”

“Because he’s still alive,” Barney says. He’s thought about this a lot, knows it’s stupid. But he also knows how wrong it’d feel to look in the mirror and not see his brother’s name written there. Next to the date when his life...didn’t end. But changed. The day everything changed. “He’s still alive, so I can’t change it.”

“I thought you were a big planner, all logical. Didn’t figure you to be superstitious,” Robbie comments, trying to lighten the mood.

“Only about some things,” Barney says, more gently this time, letting Robbie think his teasing worked.

*

Tuesday, March 5, 1991

*

Barney makes it out of his annual medical check-up relatively unscathed, albeit a bit light-headed from all the damn blood they took from him.

“What are you even looking for with all that?” he asks, staring at the tubes lined up in the tray.

“Blood glucose, cholesterol, liver function, thyroid function, and about 47 different communicable diseases. Syphilis, HIV, malaria, dengue fever, and so on,” the doctor states baldly, checking an item off on his clipboard. “We’ll let you know if anything shows up. You’re free to go.”

*

Wednesday, June 20, 1991

*

He gets to his regular table at breakfast to find Robbie and Kevane, but no Todd. “Where’s Jablonsky?”

Kevane and Robbie look at each other. Kevane looks away first, and digs into his eggs, shoulders tense.

“He had another appointment with the doctor yesterday, and never came back,” Robbie explains when it’s obvious Kevane isn’t going to. Barney’s stomach drops. “No one will tell us anything.”

“ _Another_ medical check?” Barney asks. He doesn’t really want his breakfast anymore. He slides the tray away. “Why wouldn’t he come back?”

Robbie just shrugs.

*

Thursday, June 21, 1991

*

Kevane doesn’t show up for breakfast. His bunkmates say he got pulled into the clinic this morning, suggest that maybe he ran out of time afterward and decided to just skip the powdered eggs for once.

He’s not at his station, later, when Barney checks during his break.

He’s not at lunch, or dinner, either. Neither is Jablonsky.

“The fuck is going on?” Barney asks. He hasn’t been able to eat all day; his stomach is in knots and his head is killing him. Maybe he’s sick. Maybe there’s something going around, and Kevane and Todd are sick with it, too.

Robbie shakes his head. “I don’t know. They don’t pull people like this except for—”

He cuts himself off. Barney waits a few seconds for him to continue, then asks, “Except for what?”

But Robbie doesn’t explain. Just shakes his head again, slower this time, and looks down at his plate and runs his fork through the powdered potatoes. Neither of them finish their meals.

*

Saturday, June 23, 1991

*

“Command Master Chief Mitchell wants to see you.”

Barney stops mid-step, halfway out the door at the end of his shift. There’s a security officer waiting for him in the corridor. He doesn’t look happy (they never do).

“Yes, sir,” Barney says, and follows him down the hall. He starts to wish he’d skipped lunch, the way his stomach feels as they climb higher and higher into the ship.

*

An hour later, Barney finds himself back in 210C. Alone.

Master Chief Mitchell wants him to rat on his friends. Not only that, Master Chief Mitchell wants him to _set up_ his friends. His boyfriend. To be dishonorably discharged. For being gay.

“I have medical evidence that Zajicek and Jablonsky have had homosexual contact,” Mitchell had said, seated behind his desk while he stared Barney down. “Do you know anything about that?”

“Couldn’t say, sir,” Barney had replied, spine stiff, gut churning. Mitchell had made him sit. He might have felt better had he stayed at attention. “I’m not a doctor. Don’t know anything about medical evidence.”

“Did you ever see them together?”

“Only at meals. We’re all crammed together in there pretty tightly, though, sir.” His chest had hurt. He’d resisted the urge to rub it, then. He gives in now, curled up on the floor behind a plastic-wrapped pallet. It doesn’t help. Everything burns.

“Yes, I recall seeing you there with them. You and Ensign Scott,” Mitchell had said, leveling Barney with a disappointed expression, like a father who’s been let down by an otherwise acceptable son. It’s been a long time since Barney’s father died, since he ran from his last foster father to the arms of the circus (and that night still gives him nightmares, late in August when the thunderstorms roll in). Barney doesn’t put much faith in father figures.

“When presented with the medical evidence, Zajicek and Jablonsky made full confessions. They claimed they knew of no others. I’m not convinced. These things always infect groups, and you were often seen right there with them,” Mitchell had said. “I want proof, Petty Officer Barton. And you’re going to get it for me.”

And now Barney’s leaning against the shelves in 210C, right across from where he and Robbie had first kissed, first rubbed each other off, first talked about sex and family and dreams. And now, Master Chief Mitchell wants proof that Robbie does those things.

Robbie’s out, or Barney’s out, Mitchell said.

Mitchell’s a fucking asshole.

The problem is…

The problem is that…

The problem is that Robbie has dreams. Robbie has a mom and a 12-year-old sister back home in Missouri who are relying on his paychecks, his employment, his continued advancement up the ranks. (“She’s got good grades,” Robbie once said. “Better than mine. I start saving up now, I could send her to _college_ ”). And Mitchell has no proof. He got something on Kevane and Todd — Barney can guess what that _medical evidence_ might be, and it’s bad on about thirteen different levels.

But he doesn’t have anything on Robbie, not really. No proof, other than what Barney can provide.

All Barney has is a GED, a brother he’s not sure will ever speak to him again, and what’s left of his integrity.

Well. In that case…there isn’t really a problem at all, is there? Except how to do it. That…that’s going to hurt.

He plans it for that night, right at the end of dinner, when everyone will be a little bit slower to react.

(He could wait a day. Two, even. Have one last time in the supply room with Robbie, touch him gently, put everything in his heart into it — but Mitchell’s probably having them watched, and Barney’s heart is filled with nothing but a cold ache).

He eats dinner with Robbie in the mess, as usual. Tries to swallow down as much of the meal as he can so Robbie can’t guess that something is wrong. Walks with him to bus their trays. Steps out into the corridor, and then…punches Robbie in the face. High on his cheek, where he still gets that flush whenever Barney compliments him too highly.

The force, the surprise attack, slams Robbie against the wall. “What the fuck, Barney?”

Barney surges up to him. Grabs him by the lapels and slams him against the wall again, a violent inversion of the way they used to kiss sometimes, when they were alone and randy. He leans close and says, “You’re a fucking joke, you know that?”

“What?” Robbie asks, shocked as hell and panting, eyes wide. He needs to move, to get angry, he needs to fight back, or this won’t work. Thank god the hallway’s still empty, giving Barney more time.

“I said, you’re a fucking joke, and I’m done wasting my time with a sad sack like you.”

Barney punches him again, in the stomach this time. Hard enough to hurt. Hard enough to piss him off. Not as hard as he can.

Robbie gasps, and Barney smirks at him. “Look at you. Can’t even fight back. You gonna throw up now? Throw up like a little—”

Robbie stops on his instep, twists around, and breaks free of Barney’s hold. They face each other, and when Robbie lunges forward, fist raised, Barney doesn’t block the punch.

He shakes off the hit and laughs meanly. He laughs the way Robbie’s dad used to laugh, years ago, before he left. Robbie’s described it to him. “That the best you can do? Bet your little sister can hit harder than that.”

Robbie punches him again, and Barney blocks. “Bet your little sister does a lot of things better than you. You think she—”

“Shut up!” Robbie snarls. He grabs Barney by the arm and swings him face-first into the wall. “Shut the fuck up!”

“You think…” Barney grinds out. Gasps when Robbie lands a hit to his kidney. Ignores the pain. “You think she learned it from your mom?”

Robbie pulls back, then grabs Barney by the back of the shirt and and throws him against the opposite wall. Barney feels his nose crunch at the impact, feels blood run down his lips and chin. He rolls away from Robbie’s fists, edging closer to the end of the corridor.

Robbie’s in a rage, now. Barney knows that look, has never seen it in a chosen lover before, but he knows that look.

A few people have come out of the mess to investigate the noise they’re making, but they haven’t jumped in yet to stop them. They will soon, though. Barney’s running out of time.

Robbie’s followed him down the corridor, has him pinned against the wall by the stairs. Barney elbows him in the side, takes the opening to spin around, shove him away, and grunt, “Fucking cocksucker.”

It hits. It hits right where he aimed, and Barney can feel it bleed. Robbie grabs him again and spits out, “What? What did you call me?”

“You’re a fucking cocksucker, a dirty fucking cocksucker,” Barney whispers, angling his body just a little more to the left. Robbie’s next punch knocks him back against the stairwell railing.

“YOU’RE—” Another punch, and he slides along the bar.

“THE FUCKING—” Another punch, just a bit further.

“COCKSUCKER!” One last punch, and there’s no more railing, just empty space—

Barney closes his eyes, wonders if this is how Clint felt, suspended for a moment mid-air.

Then he falls, and doesn’t wonder anything.

*

Barney wakes up.

The doctor. The ship’s doctor. Standing over him. The doctor and...Mitchell. Command Master Chief Mitchell. Mitchell the asshole.

His thoughts swim. He can’t breathe through his nose. His body hurts, but he doesn’t care. Morphine. They’ve given him morphine. Why is he on morphine?

“Petty Officer Barton? You with us?” the doctor asks.

“Can you tell us what happened, son?” That’s Mitchell. Mitchell the asshole.

Right.

“Tried…tried to do what you said,” Barney lies, through bruised lips. Doesn’t matter what story Robbie gives them, the reason for the fight. They’re going to believe whatever Barney tells them happened. Barney can make this right. “Made a pass at him. He didn’t like it. Said no. Tried to convince him. He got mad, said no with his fists.”

Barney focuses hard on Mitchell through the haze of drugs. “Don’t think he’s gay, sir. Sorry, sir.”

The doctor frowns, but Mitchell nods, and that’s all that matters. Barney can breathe now, through the pain in his chest not tempered by the drugs. Robbie is safe, he can become a captain, he can send his sister to college. He’s safe. Barney broke both their hearts, but that’s okay. Some things are more important. 

Mitchell doesn’t even know he’s been played; he just pats him on the arm. “Alright, son. I’m sorry it turned out like this.”

Barney tries to nod, only to find he can’t. His neck is braced. He glances at the doctor.

“You’re being airlifted to San Diego for tests. We’re concerned about spinal damage.”

Closing his eyes, Barney asks, hopefully, “Gonna sedate me…for the ride?”

He doesn’t hear the answer. He’s already back under.

*

Wednesday, August 14, 1991

*

Barney’s reenlistment paperwork comes in while he’s still at Balboa Naval Medical Center, recovering from a cracked vertebrae, broken ribs, bruised kidneys, and other consequences from his fight with Robbie and subsequent fall down the stairs.

One of his old bunkmates wrote him a few weeks ago. Said Robbie had been reprimanded for his use of force, but found not responsible for the fight, nor for Barney’s accidental fall.

Both are true. Both were Barney’s plan from the beginning.

Joey said Robbie seemed okay. Withdrawn, somewhat. Quiet at meals. But at least physically, he’s ok. Barney didn’t hurt him.

Robbie himself hasn’t written. Barney’s not at all surprised. It’s exactly what he deserves.

The reenlistment paperwork sits on Barney’s side table for two days before he brings himself to open it. It’s the standard package — agree to stay on a few more years, get a bonus, a pay bump, on the track for a promotion to Petty Officer Second Class, so long as he signs on the dotted line. (Well, about 14 dotted lines. Military paperwork is a nightmare).

The doctors here expect he’ll make a full recovery. They say he’ll be fit to go back on duty in just a couple of months, once his spine heals, and he can breathe deeply without making his ribs cry out in protest. They won’t stand in the way of his reenlistment.

More money. Guaranteed work, room, board, medical care…all he has to do is sign, and he’ll be sent back to the ship. It all makes sense. It’s a good plan.

But.

Barney’s never hit a lover in his life. Until now. The military made him do that, Master Chief Mitchell made him do that. To protect Robbie, yeah. But Robbie doesn’t know that, can’t ever know that. Not that it matters — either way, Barney still _did_ it.

Barney lets the paperwork sit there until the officer in charge of reenlistment comes by, and then he just says, “No. I’m done. I’m out.”

The officer scans the room, the walker, the medical chart nearing an inch thick, and nods. “Under the three-year rule of the Montgomery GI Bill, you’re eligible for education benefits. Provided your discharge is honorable.”

Barney blinks up at him, utterly flummoxed. “What?”

The officer takes a seat in the empty chair next to the bed. “You scored in the top ten percent of incoming recruits when you joined. It’s why you were accepted without the GED. So let’s talk about college.”

*

Wednesday, August 28, 1991

*

As soon as the discharge — shockingly, still honorable — is finalized, and Barney owes nothing more to the U.S. Navy, he dips into his savings and hops a flight to Cleveland.

His body still hurts, like he can feel every healed-over crack in his bones. He’s got a cane. The physical therapist at Balboa says he won’t need it after another few weeks of rest and healing and PT. For right now, though, with his muscles cramped from the flight, Barney leans on it heavily.

He tracks down Grace Munoz at Child Protective Services first. She stonewalls him — privacy laws, and a thousand other regulations, prevent her from telling him anything useful about where Clint went after he aged out of the system.

“You might try looking for his girlfriend,” she suggests, flipping through Clint’s file as Barney watches from an uncomfortable metal chair in front of her desk. “He was set on finding her someday, along with the baby.”

Yeah, he probably was. But if Jackie doesn’t want to be found, no one will find her. “Thanks for your help.”

“I’m sorry I can’t do more for you,” she replies.

“You got him help,” Barney says, staring out the window behind Grace’s desk, avoiding looking at her face. “That’s enough.”

Next, he looks up Chris and Sue Drenik, because Ms. Munoz is an idiot if she thinks Barney can’t read cursive handwriting upside-down from four feet away. She only opened the file for a moment. That was long enough.

A teenage girl, her black hair teased out in a stylish afro, opens the door at the Drenik residence. She seems content, secure. Her clothes are clean, there aren’t any obvious injuries, and she hasn’t cried in the last day or so.

At first glance, maybe not the worst placement Clint could have had.

“Oh, Clint,” Sue says a few minutes later, as she pours Barney a glass of Diet Coke at the kitchen table. Barney’s back is killing him. He pulls the cane onto his lap and fiddles with the handle.

“Oh, Clint?” he echoes.

Sue shakes her head, glancing over at her husband. (He’s a big guy. Clint wouldn’t have liked him). “I know Grace made some headway, but he never opened up with us.”

“Stopped hoarding food a few months in, though,” Chris adds. “That’s something.”

Barney sighs. Oh, Clint.

“We kept track of him as best we could after he left,” Sue continues, finally sitting down with them at the table. “Phone calls, and the like. The last time we spoke, he said he’d been recruited to a special military program. That was, what, a year ago?”

“A year ago, August,” Chris confirms, nodding. He’s curved his shoulders in a bit since sitting down, trying to make himself seem harmless. Barney doesn’t think Clint would have been fooled, but he approves the attempt.

“Nothing since then. I can give you the number for where he was living at the time, but I’m not sure he would have told them any more than what he told us.”

“He might have said more up at the club,” Chris says, making Sue nod.

“The club?” Barney asks, sipping at his pop. Investigating Clint’s life without him and the circus hasn’t brought in any surprises, yet.

“The local rod and gun club, outside of town,” Sue explains. “He had an archery membership there.”

Barney very nearly smiles at that. Oh, Clint. “Of course he did.”

Sue smiles, indulgent, and Barney feels himself warming up to her. “He was very talented.”

“Yeah,” Barney agrees. “He is.”

*

“Clint never mentioned having a brother,” the man at the front desk says when Barney gets to the club and starts asking questions. “That’s kind of the thing that tends to come up.”

Barney frowns, and thinks about how Grace, Sue and Chris have described Clint: Quiet. Closed-off. Terrified to show his belly to anyone. “Talked a lot, did he?”

(That’s not his brother, that’s not Clint. His Clint was never so raw, so hurt, so obviously in distress, not for years and years. Not since he found a place for himself in the circus, and with Jackie.

Barney curses himself, curses Trick, curses the universe for doing this to a stupid 17-year-old who should have had the chance to stay stupid and happy and in love).

“No, he never really said much about anything,” the man admits. The name _Seth_ is written on his nametag. “But you could tell there was a lot he wasn’t saying.”

Leaning on his cane, Barney sighs. Another dead end. How is he supposed to start taking care of Clint when he can’t _find_ the damn kid?

Seth springs forward, suddenly embarrassed. “Hey, sorry, I’m being an ass. You want to sit down?”

Barney slides into a nearby chair gracelessly, glad to get the weight off his feet. Maybe he’ll take tomorrow off from his investigation. “You don’t know where he went, then? Who recruited him?”

“Look, he—” Seth explains, perching himself on the chair next to him and worrying his hands together. “There was an army recruiter, okay? Who wanted him, but not after it came out that Clint was deaf.”

Barney shakes his head. Of course not. Fucking assholes. Clint must have taken that rejection _hard_. Clint never seemed to understand his value, and was always too ready to believe the worst. Barney could never figure out how to make him see it. Too busy trying to keep the kid fed, clothed…alive.

“But then a whole bunch of suits kept showing up to watch him practice,” Seth is saying. “He ended up talking to one of them, then next thing you know, he’s off to training. The Academy, he said. Never mentioned what division.”

None of this makes any sense. Why would Clint be so damn secretive about everything? Maybe it’s just another side effect of getting shot by his mentor and then abandoned to the system by his brother. Trying to make sure no one could follow him to wherever he went next. Trying to make a fresh start.

Or maybe, Clint didn’t think anyone would come looking for him. Didn’t think he was worth a search.

Barney talks to everyone at the club who knew Clint. All of them describe a quiet kid with great aim and sad eyes. He tracks down Clint’s manager at Hill’s Department Store, his old roommates, the recruiter from the city who’d come out to see Clint’s aim. He leaves his number with all of them, and then he goes home.

*

Barney goes back to San Diego. The Naval Center is still covering his physical therapy. The state college has accepted him for admission as an accounting major. He gets a room in a shared apartment in University Heights, figures out the bus and trolley routes, graduates from using his cane and too much Tylenol to get around, and just…tries not to do any more damage.

*

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Follow the [#UKOUD tag on my tumblr](http://bit.ly/2n2otJv) for updates.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All major story tags continue to be very, very relevant. Specific warnings in this chapter are for:
> 
> -Compulsory heteronormativity and homophobic microaggressions  
> -Unsafe sex practices  
> -Discussion of the impact of HIV/AIDS on the gay community  
> -Implied references to childhood sexual assault  
> -References to parental death
> 
> Many thanks to Laura Kaye, the ultimate beta of ultimate destiny, for her help.

*

Barney spends the next two years trying to keep his head down.

He can’t quite believe he’s in college — fucking _college_ , when he dropped out of school the summer before seventh grade — but it’s not quite the experience he’d heard about or seen in movies. He’s four years older than the oldest kids in his classes, and he can feel it with every glance, every joke, every missed pop culture reference. He feels ancient compared to these kids, fresh out of high school, surfing through college on their parents’ dime (Barney hasn’t gotten a dime from his parents since 1978). Barney has GI benefits, work study, and when all else fails, credit cards.

His classmates live in dorms or the frats. Barney lives out of a rented room in University Heights, a half-hour bus ride away from campus. He doesn’t “go home” for weekends, holidays, semester breaks. There are no other veterans, no foster kids, certainly no circus kids in the accountancy program. If anyone else in his cohort is gay, he doesn’t know about that, either.

They’re nice enough kids. But he can’t connect with them. He goes to his classes. Participates in group projects as needed. Does his part to keep the groups going and their grades from tanking. He keeps his head down and just…keeps trying.

*

Thursday, November 18, 1993

*

Barney avoids going to Hillcrest for two years. He learns early on in his stay in San Diego that it’s the center of the local gay community, that there are gay bars all along University Avenue, that they’ve been holding a gay pride parade there every year since the mid-seventies.

Barney avoids going, because his knuckles still hurt from where they’d cracked on Robbie’s cheekbone. His spine heals, his ribs heal, but his knuckles ache every time he thinks of the red mark on Robbie’s face.

He did that, and he can’t explain, and he can’t take it back, and he doesn’t want to do it to anyone else.

So he avoids the whole subject for two years, until a random Thursday night when he accidentally stays on the bus too long after his evening class, staring out the window at nothing. He doesn’t realize until he’s on the corner of Washington and 4th, and he pulls the cord to get off before he finds himself at the bottom of a very long hill he’ll hate having to walk back up.

It’s been a long day, near the end of a long week of classes and studying and work. So rather than camp out at the bus stop on the other side of the street, he heads down 4th a single block and looks up at the lit up sign stretching across University Ave: “Hillcrest,” laid out in a thousand glowing lights.

Every San Diego neighborhood has a sign like this. This one feels different; tension drops out of his shoulders as he takes in the sign, the storefronts, and the passersby. For some reason, he feels suddenly safe in a way he hasn’t in a long time, not since the bars he’d visit with his friends in the Navy. He hadn’t realized how much he’d missed that feeling. Maybe he should have come to Hillcrest sooner.

He unbuckles the strap on his bag, and walks into a bar with a rainbow flag hanging from a pole in front. It’s Thursday, so not quite a party night, though Fleetwood Mac is blaring over the speakers as if it were. Barney sets his bookbag down, hops up onto a barstool, and signals the bartender behind the counter.

He’s around Barney’s age, mid-twenties, and he looks like an Italian version of Paul Newman. His eyes light up when he sees Barney, and there’s a smile on his face when he approaches and comments, “Hey. You’re new.”

“Yeah,” Barney says with a shrug. He’s spent two years trying like hell not to flirt with men as good-looking as the one in front of him; it’s hard to remember it’s okay here, in this place, with this man. He admits, “Been in town for a while. Haven’t made it out this way yet.”

“Well, welcome,” the bartender says, and sticks his hand out to shake. “I’m Paul Costa, of the Pittsburgh Costas.”

Bemused, Barney obliges. Paul’s handshake is firm, but doesn’t cross the line into douchebag territory. Barney wonders how firm that hand might be other places. “Barney Barton, of the Iowa Bartons.”

“Nice to meet you, Barney Barton of Iowa,” Paul Costa (not Newman) says, smiling wider, like they’ve shared a joke together and will be sharing more than that by the time the night is over. Barney feels his shoulders finally drop down to where they belong. It feels good. “First drink’s on the house. What can I get you?”

“Surprise me,” Barney challenges, letting more flirtation creep into his voice. He’s at a gay bar. He’s alone. He can flirt with a handsome bartender all he likes. He doesn’t have to hide his thoughts or his glance, or worry what his classmates or professors think. He doesn’t have to laugh at stupid jokes said in ignorance.

Instead, he can laugh when Paul passes him an actual, honest-to-god punch glass, and says, “Long Island Iced Tea. Containing actual, certified, tea-which-has-been-iced. Along with a few other ingredients. Original recipe my father brought with him when he emigrated to Pittsburgh.”

“What, from Sicily?” Barney asks, sniffing the brown concoction. He can smell the tea. Along with a hefty dose of alcohol.

“Nah,” Paul scoffs. “Queens.”

Barney snorts, and takes a sip. “Hey, this is actually…”

“Not bad, right?” Paul says, grinning. “Take it slow, though. It’s got some power behind it.”

Barney takes another sip. He can actually taste the tea. The drink makes sense when you can actually taste the tea. He’s been ordering the wrong thing at the shitty bars on College Avenue his underage classmates drag him to. “I don’t know how much alcohol is in this, but I’m pretty sure it could fuck me up fast.”

Paul laughs. Then he winks at Barney, like they’re sharing a genuine moment, and promises, “I’ll take care of you.”

Barney smiles into his drink, and takes another sip.

He spends the evening at the bar, people-watching. He trades increasingly outlandish stories with Paul — about bars they’ve visited around the world, ridiculous antics they’ve been party to, and friends they haven’t seen in years but still think about every day.

Barney learns that Paul left the Marines three years ago, after two tours of duty left him too exhausted to continue. He got out, moved to Hillcrest, and found a job bartending because it forced him to remember how to be around normal people. It worked, and he’s been living in an apartment around the corner ever since.

(Barney tells Paul he left because he got hurt. Tells him about the weeks in Balboa, and the offer of education benefits. He doesn’t explain about Robbie.)

He spends the night in Paul’s bed, pulling out every trick he knows in order to blow the man’s mind. The last person he fooled around with was Robbie, and that was more than two years ago. He feels woefully out of practice for the first ten minutes until he gets his head together and remembers: he knows his way around a man’s body. He’s _good_ at this. _Relax_.

(Paul doesn’t complain — just throws his head back and gasps and clenches his hands in Barney’s hair).

After, Paul strokes his hair and murmurs sex-soaked praise into his chest. They don’t have to rush to get dressed and go back to the ship. They don’t have to cover up any incriminating marks. They don’t even have to worry about Paul’s neighbors overhearing. They can just lie in bed and...soak it in.

“Stay the night,” Paul mumbles adorably. “You’re warm and comfy.”

Barney laughs, charmed by Paul’s gaze and words and possessive tone, and finally relaxes enough to sleep.

*

Friday, November 19, 1993

*

Something is poking Barney in his side, and he comes awake with a gasp.

“Hey,” Paul says, leaning back out of Barney’s space. He’s still naked. That’s...that’s good. “Sorry. It’s seven o’clock. Thought you might have class today, didn’t want you to miss it.”

“Day is it?” he asks, still not quite awake.

“Friday.”

“Class is at ten-thirty,” Barney mumbles, rolling over and looping and arm around Paul’s waist to pull him close. “I can sleep for two more hours.”

It’s when he’s nuzzling his nose into the hair at the back of Paul’s neck that his brain comes fully back online, and he freezes. “Unless you want me outta your space. I can go, if you want.”

Paul turns onto his side to face him, and says plainly, “You can go if you want. You can sleep in if you want. We can fuck again if you want. Or we can go down the block to this great breakfast place and get pancakes. Up to you.”

Barney blinks, and takes a moment to search Paul’s face. It shows nothing but plain, open honesty. Which means the choice really is up to Barney. He can go, and that’ll be the end of it — a satisfying one-night stand. He can get laid again, and then head to class and back to his apartment after for a long-overdue shower.

Or...he can set something up here. Make something happen. Something that will make this warm, safe feeling in his chest last.

“Pancakes,” he decides. “And if that goes well, maybe I can take you for dinner tonight?”

Paul tilts his head, just a fraction of an inch, like he’s holding back surprise. Then he smiles. “Yeah. I’d like that.”

*

Tuesday, November 23, 1993

*

Barney’d spent the last two Thanksgiving holidays holed up in his bedroom, studying. And he’d been fine with that. Thanksgiving was a family holiday, and his family was gone, strewn who-knows-where across the country (or the world). He was fine skipping it when he had no one to celebrate with.

This year is different. This year, Paul’s boss closes down the bar to outsiders and hosts a potluck for his entire staff — anyone who doesn’t have family, or can’t go home, or has no home to go to.

On their third date, that Tuesday, Paul invites Barney to come along.

“I usually go home to Pittsburgh for Christmas, and then again in July for the big family barbecue,” Paul explains, over coffees they’d grabbed at the cafe down the block from Paul’s bar. He’s got to head into work soon, and Barney needs to study for tomorrow’s exam. “Midnight Mass for the Catholic Italian side of the family, fireworks for the Irish Presbyterians. So for Thanksgiving I like to just hang out with my friends and relax. No pressure.”

“I don’t have to come, I can just stay home and keep out of your hair,” Barney says, remembering the little makeshift holidays he and Clint would spend together in the circus. Splitting a turkey sandwich from a gas station, talking about the dinners they’d make when they had a place to live that wasn’t on wheels. “It’s...it’s a holiday. There’s supposed to be something special about the people you spend your holidays with.”

At that, Paul smirks, though there’s a sad tinge to it. “Why do you think I’m inviting you, then?”

Barney doesn’t answer, still lost in the past and all the promises to his brother he’d failed to fulfill. After a moment, Paul says, “You don’t have to come if you don’t want to. But I’d like you to come.”

Barney shakes himself free of the memories. He’s here, now, and a nice-looking guy is asking him to spend a holiday with him. Just because it isn’t what he’d imagined doesn’t mean it’s wrong.

Maybe it’s time he started accepting where his life is now.

He looks back over at Paul, meeting his eyes, and nods. “Okay, yeah. Okay. Should I bring anything?”

“Can you cook anything?” Paul asks, letting Barney’s quiet moment pass without comment. Gratitude clenches in Barney’s chest. “I haven’t seen you eat anything other than eggs and takeout all week.”

“I can make a mean tuna salad,” Barney admits, and adds a wry smile. “PBJ if I’m feeling fancy.”

Paul just laughs. “I’ll make something for both of us. Just wear a nice shirt.”

Barney walks Paul to work, and then skips studying and hops a bus to Mission Valley Center to buy a nice shirt. He should try to make a good impression on Paul’s friends, and make it a good holiday for Paul.

*

Thursday, November 25, 1993

*

Paul brings homemade cannoli to Thanksgiving.

His boss, Marco, says, “Christ, Paul, could you be more fucking Italian?”

“I’m only half,” Paul responds, shoving the huge cake box into Marco’s arms. Paul spent all morning piping sweetened ricotta cheese into the homemade shells while Barney held them. He only broke two. Maybe three. “So, yes, I could. But then you wouldn’t have me around to help you with St. Paddy’s day.”

“Ugh, good point,” Marco groans, taking the box and leading them into the main room. “Barney, nice to meet you, heard all about you, I’d shake but I’m kind of out of hands right now, so we’ll do that later. Have a seat, have a drink, get acquainted…”

Marco wanders off to the food-laden bar, still talking, and heaves the cannoli box onto the far end. Paul grabs Barney’s sleeve and leads him to the other side of the room, where a long table is set up with at least twenty chairs. “Let him go, he’ll just keep talking, you don’t actually have to stick around to listen.”

“But he’s your boss,” Barney objects.

“He’s my boss, but he’s not a dick,” Paul says. “Don’t worry about it.”

Dinner goes fine. Barney meets Paul’s friends and coworkers and their dates. He eats more turkey than he means to, but no one else seems to notice or mind, so he shrugs it off without saying anything. He passes the wine bottles without pouring any for himself. And when dessert time comes around, he take a bite of Paul’s cannoli and doesn’t immediately spit it out.

It’s…not good.

It’s very, very bad. Is it supposed to taste this bad? Barney glances around to see if anyone else has tried the cannoli yet, and see how they react.

“Jesus Christ, Paul, are you sure you’re half Italian?” Marco calls down from the other end of the table, waving the remains of a cannoli shell in his hand. “This is— I mean this is—”

“What, not enough sugar for you?” Paul calls back, laughing. “It’s not supposed to instantly melt your teeth, Marco!”

Beatriz, sitting on the other side of Paul from Barney, says, “Uh, seriously Paul, what happened?”

“What?” Paul asks, amusement turning into confusion. “It’s the normal recipe, I didn’t do anything fancy with it this year, I swear.”

“Just try it,” Beatriz says.

Paul picks up the cannoli sitting on a corner of Barney’s plate and takes a bite. He chews once, his face twisting in disgust, and then spits it out into his napkin.

“Aww, shit,” he says, covering his face with both hands. “I used salt instead of sugar. How did I confuse the salt and the sugar?!”

He raises his head and his voice to announce, “Nobody eat the cannoli! There was a slight error in the preparation, don’t eat the cannoli! I used salt instead of sugar!”

“How the hell did you confuse the salt and the sugar, Paul?” Marco asks.

Paul looks over, meeting Barney’s eyes for just half a moment before raking down his shoulders and arms. Barney thinks back on that morning — he’d worn the nice shirt to Paul’s apartment, and when Paul requested his help with the cannoli preparation, he’d taken it off and hung it on the back of a chair. He hadn’t wanted it to get dirty before dinner. So he helped out in just his sleeveless undershirt.

“I was...slightly distracted while cooking,” Paul admits, shooting an apologetic glance Barney’s way. “I had a lot of stuff open on the kitchen counter. I must have mixed up the jars.”

Everyone — _everyone_ — at the table catches that look, and they all burst out laughing. Paul laughs along with them, hiding his face in his hands and then raising his palms in the air to give a giant shrug. “Can you blame me?”

Deeply uncomfortable being at the center of attention, Barney feels his face turn red and his chest tighten up. Paul zeroes in on it immediately. He leans into Barney’s side and murmurs, “They’re laughing at me because this is my comeuppance for being a cannoli perfectionist. They all like you, and they like you even more for distracting me.”

Barney relaxes a bit, raises a hand to rub his sternum, and whispers back, “I wasn’t trying to distract you.”

“I know,” Paul says. He presses a gentle hand on Barney’s chest, right over the place that always aches. “That doesn’t mean you weren’t distracting. It’s okay. I don’t mind.”

“You don’t?”

“Nah,” Paul replies, voice low. He nuzzles Barney’s ear, and someone at the table lets out a wolf whistle. “Worth it.”

*

Barney starts bringing his books to the local cafe, and studies for his finals while he waits for Paul’s shift to end. Paul goes home to Pittsburgh for Christmas, as promised, and Barney finds himself missing him. Paul returns with family stories, about twenty pounds of chocolate, and a knit beanie with the Steelers logo for Barney.

“To keep your head warm when you’ve got to wait for the bus in this weather,” Paul says the day he returns, while a cold rain pelts the windows. Everyone who said San Diego always had perfect weather was a lying liar.

Barney freezes for a moment, hat in his hands and heart in his throat. He and Robbie didn’t have the money or space for gifts while they were dating on the ship. The last Christmas present he gave someone was Clint, and that was simply a matter of saying, _Fine, Jackie can stay with us in the camper_. He hasn’t actually _given_ someone something since...he doesn’t know when. Maybe papercrafts he made for his mother in grade school. “I didn’t...I didn’t get you anything.”

Paul angles his hips just _so_ , and says, “I can think of something you can give me.”

Barney relaxes. This, he’s good at. This, he can do. The other parts of relationships, maybe he’s not so good at them. But he can make Paul happy for a few minutes, and he can promise to take care of him, never to hurt him, and maybe that will be enough.

*

Tuesday, June 7, 1994

*

Paul has the night off, and Barney doesn’t have his summer session class until noon on Wednesdays, so they head out for a nice dinner on a random Tuesday. They wander around downtown, brushing hands occasionally as they walk down the sidewalk, and end up at a restaurant over by the convention center.

The dinner could be better; Barney’s steak is rubbery, and the dining room is loud, especially with the two middle-aged men in the smoking section arguing vehemently over basketball and slam-dunk contests. Barney and Paul roll their eyes through the whole debate as they listen in.

“God, I thought they’d never leave,” Paul mutters when the other group finally settles their bill and makes for the door. “I know it was an epic contest, I remember watching it live, but it’s been six years. More interesting things have happened in basketball since then.”

“Yeah? Like what?” Barney asks. He grew up listening to baseball on the radio; he doesn’t know much about Paul’s favorite sport.

“I don’t know…” Paul says, leaning back in his seat, all long limbs and relaxation. “Magic Johnson winning the All-Star MVP Award was pretty epic. The Bulls winning the NBA championship three years running. Bobby Hurley shitting on the court in the middle of the 1990 National Championship.”

“I’m shocked more people don’t talk about that at dinner,” Barney comments, poking at his over-done steak.

“Right?” Paul says. “Gimme a bite of that.”

Barney passes him the plate. “Have all of it, it’s shoe leather. Give me some of your pork roast.”

“Ha! How you know we’ve been together too long.”

Barney brushes the top of his foot against Paul’s calf under the table. “I wouldn’t say seven months is _too_ long.”

Paul laughs. “I’m in for it tonight, aren’t I?”

“Yeah you are,” Barney promises, letting a slight leer cross his face. Paul doesn’t blush — just shoots an identical look right back across the table.

Seven months feels like forever and like no time at all. Seven months of getting to know each other, walking around the neighborhood hand-in-hand, going to bed and driving each other crazy.

Paul is bossy during sex, and Barney likes to pick and choose which demand he listens to — whichever will let him wring out the most pleasure from Paul’s body by the end of the night. So far, it’s working. It’s different from Robbie, and different from the boys in the circus. It makes Barney feel...normal. He likes that about Paul.

Later, as they’re walking back to the bus stop, Paul stops him for a moment and ducks his head into the alley they just walked past. He steps forward a few feet, and then tiptoes back to Barney’s side, barely holding back laughter.

“What is it?” Barney asks.

“Back-alley blowies!” Paul crows. “I can’t believe guys still do that. Get a hotel room, guys. Oh man, that brings me back.”

Barney shakes his head in dismay. “At least when I was fooling around in the cornfields, there was no one else around to catch us.”

“You never got caught?”

“Of course I got caught,” Barney says, leaning into Paul’s side for a quick moment before pulling away. “But never in a cornfield.”

Paul latches onto the idea of blow jobs when they get back to his apartment in Hillcrest. But instead of unzipping his pants behind a crummy sports bar, Barney lays him out naked on clean bedsheets and edges him with his tongue until he’s crying, pleading and begging to come.

When he finally lets Paul find release, he brings himself off, kneeling there at his feet.

He crawls up Paul’s body, afterward, and tucks his face into the curve of his neck. He listens quietly as Paul pets his hair and whispers sweet praise in his ear, the same way he does every night.

Barney doesn’t know why he likes that part so much. Maybe it’s the satisfaction of sex well-had. Maybe it’s the reassurance that he can be thoughtful, can be gentle, can give something to someone without expecting anything back. The knowledge that no matter how much he’s screwed up and hurt people, even Robbie, he’s not like the men who hurt _him_ in the past. He hasn’t crossed that line. He’s safe.

He finally relaxes, and falls asleep.

*

Saturday, July 1, 1995

*

When they’ve been dating for a little over a year and a half, Paul brings Barney home with him to Pittsburgh for the family Fourth of July barbecue.

It’s apparently a Big Deal.

Paul’s older sister brought her boyfriend to the event the year before they got engaged. Paul’s older brother brought _his_ girlfriend to the event the month before they got engaged. And now Paul is bringing Barney.

“It’s no pressure,” Paul says, head pillowed on Barney’s chest in the so-late-it’s-early hours. “It’s just an excuse for all the olds to get together and catch up on the latest gossip, and for the kids to hang out around the bonfire and throw shit in it. One year, my cousin Andy threw a full lighter in and it exploded, piece of plastic caught me right here.”

He gestures to a scar on his wrist, and Barney raises it to his lips and kisses it. Goosebumps rise up on Paul’s arm, and his breath hitches. “That got him in a lot of trouble with the olds for a few years. But that’s the biggest drama that’s ever gone down, and only because it involved emergency room visits and the parents arguing about who had to pay for whose stitches.”

“Do they know you’re bringing a guy home with you?” Barney asks. Thinks about Robbie’s mother, who always wrote him news about what the girls in his class were up to and how pretty they’d become. She’d had no idea. Robbie’d never told her.

“You’re not gonna be my big gay surprise, baby,” Paul says soothingly. “Everybody’s known for years. No one’s gonna be mean to you.”

Barney’s more worried about people being mean to _Paul._ Barney can handle himself. He asks, “How did you manage that kind of set-up?”  

He’s never heard of someone coming out to their family and being happy with the results. Josh had been kicked out by his parents by sixteen. George and Jim only ever had each other. And the guys in the Navy — they were all as far in the closet as they could stand, to keep it from CMC Mitchell and anyone else who might make a problem for them.

Paul lifts his free shoulder in a shrug. “Dad’s Catholic and Italian. Mom’s Protestant and Irish. It was a big, dramatic deal when they got married. There was a huge falling-out, and people stopped talking to each other.”

“That sounds pretty stupid,” Barney says.

“It really was,” Paul admits. “It really upset a lot of people, on both sides. But on the other hand, it meant that when I came out, the family consensus was basically, ‘We don’t want to go through this again. No more fighting. Everybody be cool.’ And for the most part, they have been.”

“You didn’t have anyone, you know, drop you? Stop talking to you?” Barney asks.

“The people who were going to do it over me being gay, already did it to my parents over their weirdo marriage.” Paul pauses, pets his hand across Barney’s forehead and then sinks into his hair, scratching soothingly. “It’s gonna be fine. And I’ll be there the whole time. I’ll take good care of you.”

The promise strikes a nerve: Paul shouldn’t have to worry about him. It’s always been Barney’s job to make sure other people are safe, not the other way around. He can’t put that kind of pressure on Paul.

He tosses his head, pushing Paul’s hand off and away.  “I don’t need you to take care of me, I just don’t want me being there to screw anything up for you.”

“We survived the Cannoli Disaster of 1993,” Paul says wryly, setting his hand back on Barney’s chest. “And nothing can really top the Bonfire Explosion of ‘83. You’ll be fine.”

*

Tuesday, July 4, 1995

*

“We’re so happy you’re here,” Paul’s mother says warmly. “We’ve heard so much about you.”

“Here’s the college graduate! So you’re the guy my son can’t shut up about,” Paul’s father says. “Nice to finally put a face to the name.”

“You know Neil proposed to me, like, three weeks after my family barbecue debut, right?” Paul’s sister-in-law, Jennifer, says. “It’s like, the final test. If your relationship survives the party, it’ll survive anything.”

“You got a light?” Paul’s cousin Andy asks. “Nana always confiscates mine.”

...And that’s all in the first ten minutes.

Barney keeps busy — and avoids more awkward conversations — by being helpful. He fills a cooler with ice and beer per Mrs. Costa’s instructions. He helps Neil stack kindling for the bonfire that’ll be lit once it gets closer to dark. He wipes chocolate cake off the face of a giggling, wiggling six-year-old cousin (or possibly a niece?) without causing her to burst into tears or break out in hives, and she scampers off with a happy wave goodbye as soon as he releases her. He makes seven runs into the house and back out to the Costas’ extensive backyard for paper plates, napkins, serving spoons, different “special” serving spoons, and three water pitcher refills.

The fourth time he comes back to the party with a pitcher of water, he steps on a stray bocce ball, spills water all down his front while attempting to keep himself upright, and — right in front of Paul’s mother, father, elderly uncle, and grandmother — swears, “Fuck!”

He immediately freezes. He’s been trying so hard to make a good impression on this huge family where everyone knows everyone’s business and _likes each other anyway_ , to make sure they think well of him and think well of _Paul_ , and now he’s gone and—

“There it is!” Mr. Costa laughs. “I was beginning to think Paul made up that part about you being a Navy sailor!”

“Oh, shut up, Carlo, can’t you see the poor boy is terrified?” Paul’s grandmother scolds. “Don’t you fuss yourself, Barney, we’ve all heard worse than that around here, especially from this one.”

“Aw, Ma, don’t put it all on me. Your daughter—”

“Don’t start in on what Nellie says when she stubs her toe at night,” the uncle — what is his name? _What’s the uncle’s name?_ — chimes in. He leans back and calls out to the group of cousins congregating by the fire pit. “Paul! We’ve broken your boyfriend! Better come fix!”

“Sorry,” Barney manages. “I didn’t mean to— ah, sorry.”

Paul’s suddenly at his side. “What happened?”

“I said ‘fuck’ in front of your grandmother,” Barney admits. Then winces, because they’re all still sitting _right there_. “Twice.”

“Okay,” Paul says slowly, pulling the now half-empty water pitcher out of Barney’s hand and setting it on the table. “How about we go inside and get you cleaned up?”

“Take all the time you need,” Paul’s grandmother says, grinning.

“Shut up, Nana, you’re not funny,” Paul says, taking Barney’s hand and leading him away from the crowd.

“Yes, I am!” Barney hears her call back.

They make it inside without further incident and head up to Paul’s bedroom and their luggage. Paul pulls a clean pair of shorts out of Barney’s suitcase and admits, “They can be pretty overwhelming the first time you meet them. But they like you, really. You’re doing fine.”

“They think I’m awkward and terrible at conversation,” Barney replies, changing clothes quickly. It’s why he’s been trying to be helpful, so that he can avoid the awkward and the talking and the…everything.

“They like you. They think you’re helpful and polite, and now that they know that you can swear, they’ll like you even more.” Paul waits until he’s fully dressed, and then tugs him close to lay a gentle kiss on his lips. “Don’t worry about it. You’re doing fine.”

Barney takes a deep breath and lets it out slowly. Thinks about Paul’s brother Neil and his wife Jennifer, about Paul’s sister Julie and...whatever her husband’s name is. Thinks about traditions and rites of passage and commitment. “I just don’t want to screw this up,” he confesses. “It’s important.”

Paul frowns a little bit. “It’s just a party, baby. It’s no big deal.”

Right. Just a party. Barney nods, and reaches for Paul’s hand. “Okay. I’m ready. Let’s do this.”

*

Monday, July 24, 1995

*

Barney lands his first job after college as an accountant in the finance department of the local Roxxon office. There are about fifty people just on his team, and his new boss, Mary, seems determined to introduce him to every single one. She leads him down a long row of cubicles in the warren of walls and shelving that is their office, and has him shake hands with person after person after person, names like John and Will and Michael and Chris (and then another John, and another Will, and then a Bill, and then a third John) flashing through one ear and out the other. What they do. Where they’re from. How long they’ve been with the company. Their wife’s name. How many children they have.

Barney shakes hands and nods a lot. No, he’s not married. Yes, he’s seeing someone. Yes, “she’s” excited for his new job. Sure, he’ll bring “her” to the annual Christmas party.  

He’s going to have to fake a break-up in November at this rate, just to get out of the lies he’s been telling all day.

Barney shakes his head at the thought, and focuses back on Mary’s explanation of the office arrangement. It’s a good job. The pay is higher than he’d expected right out of school, and there are benefits on top. He can start putting some money away — maybe call around Cleveland a bit, see if anyone’s heard from Clint. See if he needs anything. See if he’s safe.

And there’s Paul to think of, now. This job...this job will be good for Paul, too. He can’t share Paul with the people here, obviously. But it can get him a nicer place to live, maybe. A car, so he doesn’t have to walk to the grocery store twice a week and lug the heavy bags home. Paul doesn’t have much in the way of savings; maybe Barney can start putting money in a mutual fund for him, in case something happens to the bar.

This job can help Barney make sure Paul is taken care of, no matter what disaster happens tomorrow.

“Where are you from?” the girl in front of him asks. She’s probably twenty-four, and whatever her hair color is naturally, it’s now a brittle mass of bleach-blonde. She doesn’t realize this is the thirtieth time he’s heard that question today.

“Iowa, born and raised,” Barney replies politely for the thirtieth time today.

“What are you doing all the way out here?” she asks, eyes wide. “Iowa’s really far!”

“Landed here when I left the Navy, decided I liked the weather,” Barney lies. That’s usually enough to turn the conversation; Californians do love to talk about their weather.

“But is your family all still in Iowa?” she asks, still digging. “Or did they move out here?”

The question catches him off guard. “I don’t have any family.”

“What?” she cries, like she can’t believe it, and Barney refrains from rolling his eyes and making a bad impression. “Everyone has family!”

Barney shrugs, and glances around for Mary, who’d deposited him in Marie’s cube with instructions to introduce himself to their project coordinator while she ran back to her desk to grab something. “Not everyone.”

“What happened to them?” Marie asks.

Barney blinks, and takes a step back, trying to ease out of her space and back into the hallway; maybe one of the Johns will rescue him. She follows, leaning forward and awaiting his answer. Finally, he admits, “They died.”

Immediately, her response is, “How did they die?”

“Car crash.”

“Were they drunk?”

“Okay! I see you’ve met Marie!” Mary says loudly from behind Barney, saving him from having to either lie flat-out to a new coworker or tell her something he doesn’t really want to get around on his very first day of work. It wouldn’t be the _worst_ thing the whole department could know about him — he’s getting that sense very quickly — but it still wouldn’t be all that great to be known as, _New guy, you know, the one whose parents died while driving drunk, he’s got red hair._

She could have started quizzing him on whether he was married, after all. And why not. And does he have a girlfriend. And so on.

“You’ll have to excuse Marie,” Mary explains, pulling Barney down the hallway. “Sometimes she doesn’t know when to stop asking questions.”

“Okay,” is all Barney says. He’s not going to trash talk a coworker on his very first day. This job is important. He needs to keep it. Which means not antagonizing Marie. Keeping everyone’s names straight (even the four Johns... or were there five?) And, it’s beginning to become very, very clear: not telling anyone about Paul.

He can do this. It’s a good job. It’s not on a ship out on the ocean. It’s civilian work, which means he can leave any time it gets bad; there’s no three-year contract beholding him to them.

He still has to lie. He can’t tell them about Paul, unless he pulls the tired old “roommate” line and remembers not to smile too widely when he talks about him. He can tell them he lives in University Heights, but he can’t tell them that he spends most of his time in Hillcrest, at the bar or the coffee shop or the pancake place.

He can’t tell them anything important about himself.

The knowledge makes Barney uncomfortable, makes him wonder if it’s too close to what the Navy was like, having to hide his relationship with Robbie at every turn. At least now, he has more freedom — outside of the 9 to 5 workday, he can be who he is without shame. It’s only during the workday that he has to shut that part of himself away..That’s a lot better than it was before.

And it’s a good job.  It’s safe.

*

Friday, July 28, 1995

*

Barney’s been hearing all week from his new coworkers about the “up-and-coming” neighborhood of North Park. It’s historic and respectable, but also hosts trendy venues like art galleries, farmers markets, and breweries. He takes a different bus from work on Friday to check it out.

He walks around the neighborhood, looking at little Craftsman bungalows and quirky apartment buildings. It’s not all that different from Hillcrest or University Heights, in all honesty. A bit further inland, so it’s a few degrees hotter than it is on the coast. Nothing that’s a dealbreaker.

He stops at a leasing office with a vacancy sign, and picks up the paperwork for a two-bedroom apartment. He and Paul can share the first bedroom. The second can be an office, or a guest room, or Clint’s room. Whatever they need it to be.

Paul will like it. They haven’t talked about moving in together, but that’s the next step, isn’t it? That’s why Paul brought him home to Pittsburgh to meet the family, to show his commitment. Paul’s obviously happy with his life, happy with his job, and apparently even happy with Barney. When he talks about the future, nothing in his idle musings changes all that much from how things are now. He wants to relax, serve beer, and enjoy being out of the service.

Now, with this new job, Barney can hold up his end. He can fill in all the gaps: by bringing in a good paycheck and saving money for emergencies. Finding them a nicer place to live in a nicer part of the city where no one can judge them based on their zip code. While Paul relaxes, Barney can make sure the numbers come out right. They can be together. He can take care of them.

*

Monday, July 31, 1995

*

The day Barney starts the second week of his new job is the same day that Paul breaks up with him.

“Sorry,” Paul says, a plastic grocery bag in his hand. It’s overflowing with clothes he’s left at Barney’s place over the past year and eight months. He stuffs another t-shirt in. The plastic stretches. “I didn’t want to do it while you were still finding your feet at work, but I didn’t want to wait anymore.”

Barney stands in the doorway of his bedroom as Paul putters around, pulling open drawers and shuffling through things on the desk. His chest feels tight, like he just ran three miles in the dark. He doesn’t rub it. He knows that won’t help.

Barney stands there in his new suit, shirt, and tie, and watches.

Finally, Paul seems to decide he has everything. He stills, looks up at Barney, and frowns. “Aren’t you going to ask why?”

“Will knowing why change anything?” Barney asks.

Paul snorts and shakes his head, looking away for a brief moment. “You always got a plan, Barney. And that’s great when your plan involves my dick. But when it involves my life? Not great.”

“So this is about the apartment.” He’d brought the lease home on Friday, showed it to Paul on Saturday morning over breakfast at his place. He’d thought Paul would be happy — a new apartment, more space, good layout, no boneheaded roommates. Instead, Paul had gone quiet. Noncommittal.

“It’s not just you deciding we should move in together without ever talking to me. It’s…” He trails off, then sighs. “It’s just not working out. Sorry that doesn’t fit with your plan.”

Barney keeps his hands relaxed, his shoulders loose. He doesn’t want Paul to feel threatened, or pressured — he remembers the look on his mom’s face when she’d try to leave Dad. He remembers the look on Robbie’s face when he’d punched him the first time. Barney doesn’t want to make Paul feel that way, too. Barney doesn’t want to hurt him.

He steps backward out of the doorway, leaves Paul plenty of space to leave, doesn’t argue or try to stop him. Paul grabs a few more things from the bathroom. Then he’s gone.

Barney sits down on the couch, chest burning, and stares at his hands for a long, long time.

*

Tuesday, August 1, 1995

*

“Hey! How was your night last night? Do anything fun?” Marie asks, sticking her head into Barney’s cubicle.

“No,” Barney says. “I didn’t do anything.”

Marie shakes her head. “We need to get you a girlfriend!”

*

Friday, August 4, 1995

*

He makes it to Friday without letting anyone at his new job know that he just got dumped by his long-term boyfriend.

He plays the part, gets his coffee in the breakroom and comments on his quiet dinner and quiet night in. Listens intently to Mary as she continues onboarding him into Roxxon’s convoluted, archaic, and altogether baffling accounting system. Twice, he explains to Marie that he’s just started a brand new job and he really doesn’t have the spare energy for a blind date with one of her college friends, though he’s sure she’s a very nice girl. He attends three separate meetings with some combination of the four Johns, as well as a scattering of Wills and a Lisa. He still doesn’t know what any of them do.

He goes to meetings, completes paperwork, does his work, and keeps his head down. He doesn’t want anyone to think he doesn’t like his job.

He tries not to think about Paul, the apartment, or the way Paul’s mother had hugged him goodbye a month ago and whispered in his ear, “Welcome to the family.”

By the end of the work week, he feels like he’s been rubbed raw. He’s tired of the front he’s been projecting to the world. He’s tired of hiding every true emotion he has. He’s tired of sleeping alone for the first time in months.

He stops home to change out of the monkey suit, and then he heads down into Hillcrest. There are dozens of bars in the area. He doesn’t have to go to Paul’s. He can find someone — make some kind of human connection.

Sleep with someone, make them feel good, and then he’ll feel better. Feel more like himself.

He won’t stay the night. Won’t go for pancakes in the morning. Won’t ask for too much. That’s what went wrong with Paul. He drove him away by asking for more than Paul was willing to give. He won’t make that mistake again.

There’s a disco bar at the far end of University. Barney doesn’t talk to the bartender at all, just heads straight to the dance floor, which is already jumping with a hundred moving bodies as the worst of the seventies blares over the speakers.

He dances for hours, flirts and teases and touches. It’s not enough, not enough to make eyes at someone and grind their hips together for a song or two. He needs more.

He finally picks out a guy who looks nothing like Paul. He’s short, stocky, has shoulders out to here and biceps the size of Barney’s head. When Barney introduces himself, he responds, “I’m Jorge. You wanna get out of here?”

“Fuck yeah,” Barney says.

They walk hand-in-hand down the block, pausing to make out in a couple storefront doorways until a group of drunk college kids across the street yell at them. Jorge yells back and flips them off, and Barney drags him further down the street before a fight can start up and ruin all his evening plans (he hasn’t been jumped since that time in Indiana; he doesn’t want to go back there again).

“What do you like?” Jorge asks between kisses when they get to his place on Robinson Street.

“Anything. I just wanna make you feel good,” Barney says. He emphasizes it by stroking his hand up Jorge’s front, starting at his balls, scraping lightly up his erection before sliding up to tweak a nipple.

Jorge makes a low sound of surprise in the back of his throat. Then he grabs Barney by hips and steers him urgently into the bedroom and against the wall. “Can I fuck your mouth?”

Barney meets Jorge’s eyes and licks his lips. Jorge’s pupils widen. “Sure, you can do that.”

He passes Jorge a condom, goes to his knees, and brings himself off while Jorge goes to town on his throat.

It’s not as satisfying as it used to be.

He never makes it to the bed. Just pulls his pants up when they’re done, combs his fingers through his hair — even though Jorge hadn’t touched it, that wouldn’t have been polite, he hates how disappointed he is by that — and walks to the nearest bus stop to head home.

*

Friday, August 11, 1995

*

Another week goes by. Barney completes his first work assignment free of all external guidance, coaching, or hinting, and Mary tells him he’s doing well. He attends a working lunch with two of the Johns and a Gary, who may or may not be on another team in the department, Barney can’t quite sort that out. He manages to distract Marie from matchmaking for two days by asking her about her boyfriend, then regrets it when she finally decides they should go double when he has his first date with her friend.

A cardboard box filled with his things from Paul’s apartment shows up on his doorstep somewhere in there. There’s no note. He puts the items away, breaks down the box, and puts it in the recycling bin.

He tries not to think about Paul. Paul, who would let him spend hours at a time in bed, touching him and stroking him and keeping him on edge until his begging became incoherent, and then Barney would make him come. And then Paul would be wrung out, affectionate, full of praise and tender caresses.

Those were the nights Barney felt like he deserved to hear those things.

(If the sex was good, why wasn’t everything else good, too?)

Another Friday, and he tries again. Another bar on a different block. Another crowded dance floor. At the end of the night, a man named James, who is tall and blonde and — again — looks nothing like Paul.

He goes home with James and rides him for hours, bringing him to the brink and then easing him away from it, back and forth, ratcheting the tension higher and higher with every movement. “Oh my god, you’re amazing,” James pants, straining against Barney’s hold on his wrists. “Don’t stop, oh my god, don’t stop.”

Barney stops, smiling as he does so, and James keens and sobs, “Please, I gotta— I’m gonna—”

He comes, and so Barney brings himself off, too, and then climbs out of the bed. Come has seeped out of the condom and onto his skin; he wipes it off absently and reaches for his boxers.

“Thank youuuu,” James groans. “That was the besssssst.”

Barney brings James a glass of water, and then leaves. He should feel satisfied. He should feel proud that he made James feel so good, showed him such a good time. Instead, he just feels...lonely.  

*

Friday, August 18, 1995

*

Another work week. Mary gives him feedback on his work, says he’s fitting in nicely in the office but he could probably stand to talk about himself a little more. He wouldn’t want people to think he’s aloof or snobby.

Barney stares at her for a second, wondering how any of that could matter more than the numbers he’s crunching for them, and says, “Okay. I’ll try to do that.”

He spends his evening thinking up normal, boring stories about himself that he can share with his office-mates. Stories that don’t involve circuses, brothers, or boyfriends. Nothing about tiny brown babies with Barton-shaped noses. Nothing about shootings and blood and fights in the corridor of an aircraft carrier.

He embellishes a few stories from college, when group projects got difficult and personalities clashed. His coworkers eat them up, boring as they are.

Another Friday. He’s tired. He goes home with Charlie, and says, “I dare you to fuck the come out of me.”

Charlie laughs and says, “I thought you might be kinky.”

“You wanna laugh or you wanna fuck?” Barney asks, annoyed.

Charlie wants to fuck. He presses Barney face-down onto the bed and makes a surprised noise; at least his touch is much more gentle than his tone. “You prepped already?”

“Course I did,” Barney says. It’s not like he wants to get injured doing this; he knows what he’s doing. “You can just slide right—”

Charlie’s inside him before he can finish the sentence, groaning deeply as he pushes in and ending with a low, “Fuck, that’s hot.”

Barney smirks a little, pleased. He reaches down between his legs, reaches further, and strokes Charlie’s sack, making him twitch and curse again. Something about it bothers him, though, and after a few more thrusts, he asks, “You manage to get a condom on?”

Charlie pulls out halfway, gasps a breath, and presses even deeper before answering, “It’s good, I got tested two weeks ago, it’s good.”

“You’re not gonna last long if you don’t put one on,” Barney replies. He pulls his hips forward until Charlie’s dick pops out, and then leans over the side of the bed to rummage around in his pants for a condom. He hands it over, and watches Charlie put it on.

“Ready now?” Charlie asks, stroking himself.

Barney rolls back onto his hands and knees, and says, “Go for it.”

Charlie wins the dare, collapsing on Barney’s back as soon as they both come, and then has the gall to ask, “You wanna cuddle now?”

“I’m fine,” Barney says. He pulls his clothes on and leaves before Charlie can think of more charming things to say.

*

Friday, August 25, 1995

*

On Tuesday morning, he makes an error so huge it takes him until Thursday to track it down and fix it. Roxxon’s stupid accounting processes are half the reason it takes so long — he has to back-track and re-code and re-formulate twenty-seven different discrete sub-processes, and get manager approval on every single piece before he can move on to the next one.

“It was bad, but no one died,” Mary reassures him. “You’re doing fine.”

Barney wishes he could tell Paul about it. Paul would find a way to make it funny, so they could laugh about it and move on. Paul would know how to tell Marie to shut up without making her cry, would know how to tell John and John and Bill to stay out of his business.

He picks up Darren at the hole-in-the-wall cocktail lounge up off Washington, because he’s sick of the bright lights and loud music of the discos and just wants a quiet drink before getting laid.

They get each other off in the back of Darren’s car, and then Darren drives him home once he gets feeling back in all his fingers and toes.

“That mouth of yours should be licensed as a lethal weapon,” Darren comments.

Barney snorts. “Shut up, man.”

*

Friday, September 1, 1995

*

He makes it all the way home with Luis, this time. That’s got to be a good thing, right? Until Luis wants to hold him. And rub his back. And call him, “Baby.”

It makes his skin feel prickly, and his eyes feel suddenly damp, and he has to pull away with a quiet kiss and sincere apology, because he can’t deal with it, and Luis is too nice for someone like him, and he’s got to _go._

*

Friday, September 8, 1995

*

When Paul slides into the empty barstool next to him, Barney freezes.

“Hey,” Paul says, quietly. He’s wearing a deep red shirt that sets off his eyes, makes them glow a warmer brown. Barney always loved it when he wore that shirt.

“Hey,” he says back, because he was raised to be polite. He doesn’t want it getting back to Paul’s Nana that he was rude. Again.

Paul signals the bartender and waits, in silence, for a couple of minutes until a beer is set in front of him. He takes a sip. Barney watches him out of the corner of his eye, caught wrong-footed and with no idea what to do.

He can’t exactly pick up a one-night-stand with his ex watching from the sidelines.

“This not part of your plan?” Paul asks.

Barney looks away. Wants to ask what Paul thinks he’s doing. Do they have to talk about this now? Do they have to talk about this here? What the hell does he want Barney to say? Finally, he settles on, “No, babe, it’s not.”

“I’m not your babe anymore.” The reminder could be so cruel, but Paul says it so gently. It makes Barney’s chest tighten.

He looks over at him, and nods. “I know.”

Paul’s expression is open. Open, and resolute. “That doesn’t mean I don’t still care about you.”

Barney twists his head, tears his gaze away again to stare at the draft board, the chalk letters all blurring together. “Don’t say shit like that.”

A hand on his arm, and now he’s got goosebumps, because it’s Paul, and it’s so right, where everything else and everyone else was wrong, and he _can’t handle it_.

“I’m worried you’re going to get hurt,” Paul is saying.

“You dumped me, man,” Barney points out, carefully shrugging off Paul’s hand and standing up. “You weren’t worried about it then.”

He ducks through the crowd and straight out the door before Paul can answer. He walks for three blocks, at a brisk pace to try and clear his head, glancing behind every now and then to make sure Paul isn’t following. He crosses the bridge over the highway and ducks into a bar on the next block.

He hasn’t gotten drunk, not on any of these nights out. A beer or two, yeah, to loosen up. But he doesn’t…it’s a control thing. He tells himself that it’s so he can be sure everyone enjoys themselves, so that he can concentrate. But it’s probably just a control thing, like the planning, like everything else.

What has that brought him? What has that gotten him? He thinks that if he plans enough, if he controls enough, if he sets everything up just right, things will finally go his way.

But they never do. Not with Clint. Not with Jackie and Bailey. Not with Robbie. And not with Paul — and he’d tried _so hard_ with Paul. He’s still trying. So hard. To just...control it all. Make it all better, run around with these guys and prove to himself that he’s okay, that he can handle it, that he can give good sex and make someone happy even if it’s only for ten minutes or an hour or half a night.

But anything longer than that? No amount of control in the world can prevent him from screwing things up with someone.

He walks up to the bar and asks the bartender for three shots of Skyy vodka. He knocks them back one after another. He watches the dance floor, waiting for the shots to kick in. When ten minutes pass, and he doesn’t feel any different, he orders three more shots, and heads down to the floor.

*

Saturday, September 9, 1995

*

Barney wakes up.

He’s alone in an unfamiliar bedroom. He’s naked under the covers. There’s dried semen on his stomach and between his thighs, but there’s also two empty condom wrappers on the floor next to the bed.

He doesn’t remember anything past the sixth shot.

He finds his clothes, pulls them on, and leaves the apartment without seeing anyone else.

*

Friday, September 15, 1995

*

He makes it through another work week. The paychecks are starting to make a nice pile in his bank account, and he manages to pay off one of his credit cards, the one he used to buy all his nice work clothes.

He goes home with Wayne. Uses his mouth and his fingers to bring him off three times. Wayne falls asleep immediately after, and never notices that Barney doesn’t get off at all. Barney just cleans up and leaves.

*

Friday, September 22, 1995

*

The seasons have started to change — what little they apparently change, in San Diego — and the shift has given Barney a head cold. Possibly the flu — he’s got a fever, chills, can’t quite get up off the couch. He orders massive amounts of pho from the place around the corner, but doesn’t manage to eat more than a few spoonfuls before nausea makes him have to stop. So he stays home, curled up on the couch with the television on.

He misses Paul. If Paul were here, he’d have Barney’s head in his lap, and he’d run his fingers through his hair as they watched TV. Barney would relax, maybe even sleep, and then wake up feeling warm and soft and content.

He wonders if it’s Paul he’s missing, or that content feeling from being cared for: out in the open, no sneaking around small towns or Navy ships, trying to find a few short minutes of real connection.

At least he didn’t hurt Paul. It’s good that Paul left, that he took the initiative, made the right choice. He was just taking care of himself. Barney can’t fault him for that.

*

Friday, October 6, 1995

*

Barney goes to a regular bar after work, just a few blocks down from Paul’s. No flashing lights, but no grungy parking lot in the back, either. Just a regular bar and a lemonade.

He still gets attention. He’s wearing his Navy jacket, and it fits him well, so he still gets attention. He’s surprised, though, when the Hispanic guy at the other end of the bar finally approaches and says, “Hey, aren’t you dating Paul, the bartender over at—”

“We broke up,” Barney interrupts. He doesn’t want to think about Paul anymore.

“That a good thing or a bad thing?”

“What?” Barney asks, confused.

“The breakup,” the guys says. He sits down on the barstool next to Barney and leans in to ask again, “Was it a good thing or a bad thing?”

Barney looks down at his lemonade and stirs it a little bit. “Good for him, I guess.”

“The breakup his idea?”

“I don’t know who you are,” Barney says, looking back up at the man to shoot him a glare. “But you’re not getting me to talk trash about Paul. He’s a good guy, so fuck off.”

“Hey no, c’mon man, I’m not harshing Paul,” he says, leaning back and raising his hands in innocence. “I was just wondering what happened. You look about as happy as he does about it, that’s all.”

Barney shakes his head. “Who the fuck even are you, man?”

“Juan,” he replies, and that makes Barney laugh despite himself. “What’s so funny?”

“I work with about five or six Johns at my new job. It’s nice to finally meet a Juan, that’s all.” He reaches out to shake Juan’s hand and meet him properly, since apparently Juan has decided they’re friends. “I’m Barney.”

“You’re working in the wrong place, Barney,” Juan comments, shaking his head sadly.

“Don’t I know it.”

“So what happened with Paul?” Juan asks, settling his weight on the barstool like he’s making himself comfortable with a good, long listen.

Barney fidgets with his lemonade again. “I don’t want to talk about it.”

Juan snorts and slaps the bartop lightly, bringing Barney’s eyes up to his. “Uh, excuse me, Mr. Sitting Alone in an Empty Bar Moping. Seems like not talking about it isn’t doing you much good, either.”

Barney looks away, up at the draft list. Then over to the other end of the bar. Then back down to his lemonade. He tries to remember the names of all the guys he’s slept with since Paul walked out. He can only remember three. He sighs, and says, “I’m not spilling my woes and then sleeping with you.”

“I’m not attracted to crabby gingers; you’re safe from me,” Juan snarks. Barney finds it oddly refreshing.

He takes a deep breath. Lets it out. Figures maybe it’s time to try something new. “Okay. Okay. I feel like it all went wrong because of the apartment...”

*

Saturday, July 20, 1996

*

“If any of my coworkers see me there, I’m going to kill you,” Barney says through a face full of rainbow paint.

“It’s San Diego Pride,” Juan says, applying more paint to Barney’s cheek than really ought to be necessary. “They see you, you see them, everyone goes home and comes back to work Monday morning to say they didn’t do anything more interesting than yard work over the weekend.”

Lida steps close to observe Juan’s handiwork, bright flags already adorning both her brown cheeks. She adds, “And if someone does see you, maybe it’ll finally get Marie off your back about dating women.”

Barney visibly shudders, and Lida winces in sympathy. She’s only a year older than Marie, but so, so different.

“The very last thing I need in the world right now,” Barney says seriously, “is a twenty-four-year-old straight girl trying to find me men to date.”

“What’s that I hear? Is Barney ready to start dating again? I have a list!” Debbie calls from the kitchen of Juan’s apartment.

“I don’t need you finding me a date!” Barney hollers back. He brushes Juan’s paintbrush away and stands up.

“But I’m neither twenty-four nor straight, Barney dear,” Debbie says, walking into the room to bop him on the head with a dish towel. She’s tall, and pear-shaped, and has hugged Barney twice a week, on average, since the day they were introduced. Her hair is purple today.

How did Barney end up friends with these people? How did Barney end up friends with these terrible people and let himself be dragged to the San Diego Pride Festival, of all things, while wearing rainbow face paint?

“You are the most beautiful forty-nine-year-old lesbian in all of creation,” Juan tells Debbie, tossing his paintbrush on his stained coffee table and standing to give Deb a kiss on the cheek.

Right. That’s how. Because one night of talking about his complete and utter failure at maintaining relationships meant that Juan had decided they were friends. And when Juan decides he’s your friend, well. That’s the ballgame.

“Don’t you try to sweet talk me, young man,” Debbie is saying. “Are we finding Barney his one true love at Pride today?”

“I think at this point we’ll be lucky to find _Barney_ at Pride today,” Lida comments dryly, picking up Juan’s discarded paint brush and wiping it off on a stray paper towel. “Better give him some space, he’s tetchy right now.”

“If my coworkers see me, I could lose my job,” Barney repeats. He doesn’t know how he got talked into going to this event. He just...everyone’s been preparing for weeks. Hillcrest has been preparing for weeks. His friends have been talking about it for months.

It’s a community tradition. He feels like he has to go. He’s still searching for that feeling of connection, of place, of safety. If one or two (or ten or so) bed partners couldn’t create that for him, then maybe a few hundred or thousand parade-goers can.

It’s worth a shot. Maybe even worth the risk.

(But he’s not telling Juan that. Juan’s having too much fun trying to wind Barney up about it all. Barney is willing to let him.)

“Alright, it’s time to go if we’re going to go,” Lida announces. “Everybody ready?”

“Last chance to back out!” Debbie sings.

Barney glances over at Juan. “Let’s do it.”

*

After the parade, Barney joins his friends in a cramped and crowded bar. They snag a table the second it opens up and bus it themselves to give the poor waitstaff a break. They wait forever for their drinks to arrive, and then take a moment to sit in silence...and remember.

“To my first boyfriend, Leo,” Juan says, raising his glass, face drawn and serious. “Some guys jumped him in OB. Threw him in the water, he didn’t come out. He was nineteen.”

“You guys are young. You don’t know what it was like around here, this neighborhood— before. Before it all changed. I’ve nursed more friends through their last days than I care to remember,” Debbie says, bringing her drink up. “Here’s hoping I never have to do it again.”

Lida is silent, but she raises her glass, as well.

“To Josh,” Barney says. “I didn’t—”

He takes a breath. His friends don’t look at him, just let him take his time. He doesn’t know for sure what Josh died from. But he can hazard a guess: the same thing that killed Debbie’s friends, and Lida’s friends, and changed the demographics of Hillcrest so much you’ll hardly ever meet a gay man over the age of 35. It’s not that they don’t live here anymore. It’s that they died here.

He takes another breath, and just says, “To Josh.”

They all drink.

Barney sets his glass back down on the table and scans the room; some groups are laughing and joking, others making quieter toasts like theirs. He turns his head — and there’s Paul, in a corner booth, surrounded on both sides by smiling friends. He looks sad.

Barney stares. Paul glances up and meets his eyes, like he’s known the whole time that Barney was sitting there, and looks away quickly. Not a moment passes before he’s back, holding Barney’s gaze. He nods, quirking one corner of his lip back just a hair.

 _Hello_.

Barney nods back, and smiles at him gently.

He doesn’t like Paul looking so sad.

*

Afterward, laying in bed that night before finally falling asleep, it’s not the parade that Barney remembers. It’s not the streamers or ribbons or floats. It’s not the rainbows, not the glitter, not the face paint, not the confetti. It’s not even Paul.

It’s the feeling of being surrounded by a thousand people, and the feeling he could look any of them in the eye and tell them his deepest secret, and they would say, “That’s okay.”

(The secret isn’t that he’s gay.)

(The secret is that he’s scared.)

*

Monday, February 3, 1997

*

Barney’s been working in the finance department at Roxxon for a year and a half when he finally figures out their game. When he catches it, he’s surprised it took him so long. But then again, he was pretty distracted when he started this job. It took him a while to memorize their procedures, absorb their obscure rules about who submits what invoices and who provides what approvals and which accounts connect with which accounts.

It takes him a year and a half to realize someone’s moving money the same way he used to rip off Carson.

It’s a subtle trend, hardly even a pattern. An itemized invoice re-routed through three different department codes. A supplies vendor that doesn’t seem to exist, except on paper. Payments from foreign banks that Barney’s never heard of. And everything is shuffled around so neatly that there’s hardly any gaps in the numbers.

It’s just that the numbers are all fake.

At first Barney thinks someone high up in the food chain is siphoning money out of the company and into offshore accounts. Plain and simple embezzlement.

Then he finds an excuse to go down into the basement and dig through prior year records. Checking and cross-checking department codes, invoices, routing numbers, signatures. Everything he finds adds to the picture, makes it more and more clear.

It’s not that someone at Roxxon is dirty. It’s that _Roxxon_ is dirty.

Fuck.

*

Tuesday, February 25, 1997

*

He calls ahead. Asks if it’s a good time to come over. Waits until he gets permission. Then he grabs his keys and heads out.

“Hey,” Paul says, waving Barney through his front door.

“Hey,” Barney replies, looking around. Not much has changed in a year and a half. There’s a new blanket on the couch, a few more VHS tapes in the stand next to the TV. But all in all, it’s still the place where he spent most of his time with Paul. It still feels like safety.

Paul hands him a can of Diet Coke and says, “C’mon, sit down, tell me what’s going on.”

Barney sits and rolls the can between his palms, searching for the right words to say. He doesn’t know what to do. He came to Paul because he doesn’t know what to do. His friends are great and he trusts them, but with something this huge...even after all this time, he trusts Paul more. He wonders what that says about him.

“I was reconciling invoices at work,” he begins. “Making sure all the numbers went the right way in all the accounts. Scut work, right?”

“Right,” Paul says, not so much in agreement as to move the conversation along. He’s seated next to him on the couch, like this is any other night together, before.

“I found a pattern. The wrong money going to the wrong places.”

“Did you show your boss?” Paul asks, frowning.

Barney nods. “When I first noticed it, yeah. She looked over everything, followed the multi-step procedures the company has laid out for checking the numbers, said it was fine.”

“She didn’t believe you?”

“No, it’s not that,” he says. “It’s…if you follow the procedures, everything does look fine. The problem is...I think the procedures, I went through them step by step, I think they’re _designed_ to hide the fact that the company is moving the wrong money to the wrong places.”

Paul sighs, and rubs his face with his hands. “Oh boy.”

“You don’t believe me.” It’s not a question.

“Of course I _believe_ you, Barn, Jesus. I just don’t know what you expect me to say, here.”

“I just…” Barney searches for the words. “I don’t know what to do.”

Paul lifts his head and levels a glare at him. “Yes, you do.”

“I can’t take this to the San Diego PD,” he protests. “They won’t even understand what I’m talking about.”

“There’s an FBI office up by The Split,” Paul points out. “Gather up all your copies and evidence and take it there. They’ve got forensic accountants up there who do this for a living.”

“I’ll lose my job,” Barney retorts. “And if it gets out I ratted on them, I won’t get hired anywhere else in the county.”

“That go against your plan?” Paul asks, not without some sharpness.

Barney deflates. He leans against the couch cushion and rests his head back to stare at the ceiling. His voice comes out flat, despondent, when he says, “Would you shut up about the plan already? I’m sorry about the apartment, I’m sorry for being an asshole, but you could have said something. The whole time it was bothering you, you could have said something.”

He hears Paul let out a long breath, feels him settle back against the cushion next to him. “I didn’t want to hurt you.”

Barney lets out a harsh laugh. He’s used to being the one who causes the hurt. “I can’t fix what I don’t know about.”

Fingers on his chin, tilting his face to the right. Paul’s dimples are showing. “You were going to make a plan to fix your plans?”

Barney pulls away, puts more space between them. “Shut up. It’s not funny.”

“No, it’s not,” Paul agrees softly. “I think you know what you need to do about Roxxon, Barney. I just don’t know why you came to me about it.”

“Yeah, you do,” Barney says. He grabs the pop can from the coffee table and finally pops the top; it’s loud in the quiet of the apartment. He takes a sip, not tasting it.

“I guess I do,” Paul says.

Barney finishes his drink slowly. Plays with the tab until it breaks off. Slips it inside the empty can and listens to it rattle.

“I leave people,” he says suddenly, breaking the silence. “When it’s the right thing to do, I leave them. Or I drive them away. For their own good. I didn’t—”

He sets the can back down on the coffee table, using the movement as an excuse to turn his face further from Paul’s gaze. “I didn’t mean to drive you away.”

Paul’s fingers brush his cheek, and he freezes. They trail up across his forehead, then cross over hairline, skim through his hair, down to the back of his head.

Fuck. Fuck. Oh, fuck.

“It wasn’t the apartment or the plan,” Paul admits, though Barney can barely hear him, overwhelmed by the sensation of the hand cupping the back of his neck. “It was the commitment.”

“Oh,” is all Barney can say. He can’t look at Paul.

“I got spooked, after the family barbecue. They all loved you, and my mom pulled me aside and said— well.” He clears his throat. “Getting an apartment together, making _plans_ , wasn’t something I thought I was ready for.”

Barney nods. That makes sense. He pushed too hard, too fast, too soon.

Paul hesitates. Then, voice tight, “I was wrong.”

_What?_

“—And I’m sorry, Barney. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have run away from you.”

Paul’s eyes are wet. When Barney looks back at him, careful not to dislodge the hand still on his neck, Paul’s eyes are wet and tired and so, so sad.

That last part…that’s maybe something he _can_ fix.

Barney shifts over on the couch, making room so that he can pull his feet up and lay down with his head in Paul’s lap. He wiggles a bit, getting comfortable the same way he always used to, and then Paul’s hand is back in his hair, carding through it gently. “Guess I’m calling the FBI.”

“Guess so,” Paul says.

Barney closes his eyes and hopes. “You’ll still love me even when I’m unemployed and homeless?”

Paul lets out a breathless laugh, and it sounds like a new beginning. “I’ll always love you. Jackass.”

*

Thursday, March 6, 1997

*

Barney walks into his meeting with the FBI carting a banker’s box full of photocopies of Roxxon files. He couldn’t sneak copies of everything. But he thinks he’s got enough to explain how the deceptive accounting procedures work, and give hints for where further investigations could concentrate their efforts.

He left his desk last night exactly the way he found it that morning, afraid to give any indication of what he was about to do. He doesn’t expect he’ll ever see it again.

It’s okay. He keeps all his photos of Clint — just a handful that he’s carried from foster care to the circus to the ship — tucked away safely at home. All he’ll lose is a desk calendar he’s not particularly attached to and several dozen mechanical pencils.

When he pulls out the first stack of papers and gets three minutes into his explanation, the young FBI agent he’s meeting with stops him. Takes him out of the tiny office and into a conference room with a table big enough to seat twelve. “Start laying everything out,” he instructs. “I’ll be right back.”

The agent comes back with an older woman striding alongside, dressed in a charcoal pantsuit and a striking jade green blouse. She sweeps her gaze across the stacks of papers, then turns to Barney. “Start from the beginning.”

Twenty minutes later, the young agent from the beginning is gone, and three more have taken his place, toting notepads, calculators, and laptop computers. Barney explains again.

Two hours later, the first agent is back. He hands a sheaf of papers to the woman in charge; she nods, and he leaves once again.

She skims the page, flips to the next, and then raises her eyes to meet Barney’s and begins to read, “Charles Bernard Barton, born 1969 in Waverly, Iowa. GED, 1990. US Navy, Petty Officer Third Class, honorable discharge, 1991. BA accounting, San Diego State, 1995. That about cover it?”

“Yes, ma’am,” Barney says, staring at her.

“Any reason why I _shouldn’t_ be recruiting you right now?” she asks.

Barney pushes his shock to the side for the moment and thinks. About Trick, and Clint. About the Navy, and that awful fight with Robbie. About Paul, and the tentative plans they’ve been making together to rebuild that connection.

And how he swore to never, ever let someone else force him to hurt the people he loves.

He squares his shoulders and falls instinctively into parade rest.

“I’m gay, ma’am,” he says, chin up, eyes front. “And I’m not going to hide it.”

She smiles, and looks ten years younger from one moment to the next. “I think we can work with that.”

*

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> High-fives to anyone who caught the Landslide chapter 3 reference.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Two steps forward, one step back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **! Important chapter warnings !**  
>  \- Description of child sexual assault from the perspective of the now-adult victim (takes place September 12, 1997, skip to the next day if you need to)  
> \- Description of Clint's shooting from Barney's perspective  
> \- Diagnosis of an incurable and upsetting disease (see end notes for spoilery explanation if needed)
> 
> My unending thanks to Laura Kaye, kathar, and shell for their help with this chapter. Y'all are the best!

*

Thursday, July 3, 1997

*

Four months after they get back together, Barney and Paul fly to Pittsburgh for another Costa family barbecue.

The first time — that first barbecue — Barney was nervous because he was being introduced to the family, because it was a sign of commitment, because he thought he needed to make a good first impression in order to keep Paul.

Now, Barney’s nervous because it’s been two years; he and Paul have since broken up, sown their wild oats, and gotten back together. He has no idea what anyone thinks or knows about that whole debacle. Whether they blame him for the breakup. Whether they’re angry at him for hurting Paul. Whether they think Paul is crazy for taking him back, for trying again.

“I can hear you thinking,” Paul says as they leave their gate and head toward the Pittsburgh Airport exit, where his parents are waiting. “What are you stressing over?”

“Whether your family will blame me for the breakup and hate me forever,” Barney confesses, embarrassed to be caught out.

“Oh, they blame me for the breakup,” Paul says breezily. He glances at Barney’s face and outright _laughs_ , the jerk. “I got told off by three separate people for being a commitment-phobe and letting such a nice, polite young man like you slip through my fingers.”

Barney trips over his own two feet, and Paul takes his hand to steady him. “What?”

“Oh yeah,” Paul admits, tightening his grip for a moment. “Nana was pissed at me forever. ‘He’s such a sweet boy, Paul,’ and ‘He’s so fetching when he blushes, Paul,’ and ‘He obviously thinks the world of you, Paul.’ For months, that’s all I heard.”

“Your Nana did _not_ say those things,” he contends.

Paul just laughs again. “She really did. She’s gonna be thrilled to see you this weekend.”

Barney shakes his head, and takes everything Paul says with a heaping tablespoon of salt. Until they reach the arrivals board and greet Paul’s parents, and they both — both of them! At once! — blow right past Paul and wrap their arms around Barney.

Barney freezes, speechless. Two years of Debbie hugs every week have gotten him used to casual embraces — but not two at once, and not from people who should, in all honesty, resent him at least a little for hurting their son.

“Uhh, guys?” Paul asks, poleaxed. “I’m right here, you know.”

“Hush, Paul,” Paul’s father, Carlo, says. He’s taller than Paul and mostly grey, but otherwise looks almost exactly the same. “You just saw us at Christmas, you can wait your turn.”

“Barney, dear, it’s so good to see you again,” Paul’s mother, Nellie, adds. “We’re so glad you decided to forgive our son his poor judgment and give him another chance.”

“One he doesn’t deserve,” Carlo says.

Nellie, who must have looked just like Maureen O’Hara when she was younger, agrees, “Oh no, not at all. Completely undeserved.”

“Okay guys, I get it, your point has been made. Let him go before he decides to get right back on the plane home.” Paul’s voice is full of annoyance and, underneath that, laughter, even as his parents draw away from Barney slowly.

“Did we break you?” Nellie asks with a grin, as she steps over to Paul and squeezes him around the waist.

Barney shakes his head and doesn’t say anything, can’t say anything. He really...he really had been expecting them to hate him. He can’t quite process the fact that they _don’t_.

“You did break him. That is entirely unfair,” Paul says, hugging his mother back. “He’s not used to you guys, yet.”

“He’ll get there,” Carlo says, in that same breezy, unconcerned  tone. Then it’s his turn for a hug with Paul, and then they all turn and head for the exit as a unit. Barney finally unfreezes and stumbles to catch up.

“Told you,” Paul whispers when they’ve stowed their luggage in the trunk and are climbing into the backseat together. “They might like you more than they like me.”

“Shut up,” Barney replies, flushing.

“So Barney,” Carlo begins once the car is in gear and Elton John’s _The Last Song_ is playing softly on the radio, “when does FBI training start down in DC?”

“The fourteenth,” Barney answers, chest tight with some emotion he can’t identify or name.

“Oh, okay, you got time then. How long’s it last for?”

“Eighteen weeks.”

“Eighteen weeks, hm.” Carlo chews on that for a second. “So you’ll be done, what, right before Thanksgiving, then?”

“November fifteenth.”

“Dad,” Paul interrupts, glancing at Barney worriedly, like he can see the uncertainty brewing in his face. “Knock it off with the third degree, will ya? Barney’s tired.”

“Oh, he’s tired, okay,” Carlo says, and Barney can’t read his tone. “Well then Paul, my youngest son, my darling boy, you tell me the details of this road trip you have planned next week to take Barney to his training. You renting a car, or borrowing mine?”

Paul shares a look with Barney, rolls his eyes, and proceeds to answer his father’s many, many questions about their plans, their route, their pit stops, their hotels, their car, and their supplies. He also gives them three recommendations for places to get good pancakes. So it’s not all bad.

*

Friday, July 4, 1997

*

Paul’s Nana pulls Barney aside at one point during the barbecue and says, “You must forgive Paul his stupidity when it comes to relationships, he hasn’t had very much practice.”

“I…” Barney stutters. “I never blamed him in the first place.”

Nana eyes him for a long moment. “You didn’t, did you? Well, maybe you should have.”

“I didn’t want to,” Barney replies honestly. Nana seems to have that effect on him, whenever she gives him those long, assessing looks like she can see right through him.

“You’re a good boy, Barney,” she finally says. “And so is Paul. I don’t want to see either of you two hurt, so you had both better learn to use your words, you hear me?”

“Yes ma’am.”

“‘ _Yes ma’am_ ,’ he says. Don’t ‘ _Yes ma’am_ ’ me, get me another Yuengling and send your sweetheart over here with it. I need to have these same words with him, now that I’ve been reminded of how handsome you are. Go on, go.” She shoos him away.

He grabs the beer, finds Paul over by the fire pit with two of his cousins, and says, “Nana’s on the warpath. Bring her this and then find a reason to leave quick.”

Paul laughs and winks at him. “You’re learning.”

*

Tuesday, July 8, 1997

*

They leave Pittsburgh on Tuesday morning and make it to DC by early afternoon. Barney has been provided housing during the eighteen weeks of training; for now, though, while they’re just being tourists, he and Paul get a hotel room together in Alexandria.  

The next day, they visit the Washington Monument, the Lincoln Memorial, and the Jefferson Memorial. They visit the Vietnam Veteran’s Memorial and look for the name of Barney’s uncle Charlie, who died there the same year Clint was born. They search, but they don’t find it.

They walk the National Mall, and Barney marvels at the size of it. Marvels at the fact that last October, the AIDS Quilt covered it completely; Juan and Barney had talked about flying out to see it, just once, but they hadn’t had the money to spare. The Quilt is even bigger, now, and the fact burrows deep under Barney’s skin.

After their quiet, solemn tour of the Mall, Barney and Paul head into town for a late lunch, and eat it quietly at a small waffle shop on 10th. Tired, they hop the Metro back to their hotel, and stretch out together on top of the bedcovers.

“You’re pensive,” Paul observes, a long time later, when they’ve dozed and come back awake slowly.

“Yeah,” Barney agrees. “Guess so.”

“How come?”

Barney takes a moment, gathers the thoughts that have been circling in his mind since that short little conversation with Nana, then asks, “Why did we break up?”

Paul makes a startlingly good impression of a fish, and then manages to regain control of himself and say, “Because I’m a commitment-phobe? I don’t know a good thing when I have it?  Why are you asking?”

“I’m not— I’m not trying to bring up old hurts. I just...we’re going to be apart for four months, and it’s going to be hard, and I don’t want…” He trails off. Paul is looking at him, that open look that Barney still can’t quite decipher, but wants to spend the next hundred years trying to figure out. “I don’t want to make the same mistakes as last time.”

Because they haven’t talked about this, not really. They’ve talked about the past two years, sure, caught each other up on what they were doing. Then Barney was pulled into whistleblowing at Roxxon, and applying for the FBI, and getting _accepted_ into the FBI, and now here they are. In a Marriott west of the Potomac — just down river from the White House, the Capitol Building, the Triskelion — on the brink of a new life.

“You wanna make all new mistakes this go around?” Paul asks. He’s joking, but he’s also reaching for Barney’s hand. “Keep it interesting?”

Barney links their fingers together and holds on. “Yeah. I do.”

At that, Paul closes his eyes and breathes, and Barney gives him time to get his thoughts in order. He’s not waiting long. “The apartment thing took me by surprise because I didn’t know what you were planning. I didn’t know what you were planning because you didn’t tell me.”

He looks over at Barney, then, and says, “I felt like you were making all the decisions without me. Like you were the parent and I was the child, and I didn’t have a say. I didn’t like that.”

Barney reins in the urge to apologize for that. This isn’t the time. This isn’t that conversation.

Paul leans forward. “So if we’re gonna do this for real this time, just...just talk to me. Tell me what’s going on. Let me _in_ on the decisions, even the hard ones. _Especially_ the hard ones. You don’t have to do everything on your own. Okay?”

Barney looks back into Paul’s steady gaze and thinks about all the times he’s had to go it alone. Be the one to make the decision. Try to make things work out for the best when everything felt like it was working against him. It’s hard to think of breaking that habit, of letting someone else in, of giving up some of that control.

Control. Right. The thing that he loses hold of the more he tries to hang onto it.

Maybe Paul can help. Maybe four hands can hang on, when only two couldn’t.

“Okay,” Barney says, nodding. “I’ll try.”

Paul kisses him, evidently pleased. “Okay. And for me?”

“What about you?”

“This isn’t Bash Barney Hour,” Paul says, frowning. “You’re not the only one who needs to hold his end up. What do you need from me?”

Barney grips his hand tighter, brings it up to his face and presses it against his cheek. What _does_ he want from Paul?

“I need to tell you things,” he finally says. “A lot of things. I guess I just need you to listen.”

Paul smiles, and kisses him again. “I can do that.”

*

Sunday, July 27, 1997

*

Paul flies back to San Diego, and Barney starts FBI training. Classes during the week, homework all weekend, and then Sunday afternoons, he calls Juan, he calls Debbie, and he calls Paul.

“I got a bigger spoiler for the back of my car,” Juan says, excited and upbeat as usual. “It’s sooo sexy.”

“Juan’s new spoiler is going to catch a gust of wind and send him flying into the Bay,” Debbie says. Lida laughs in the background.

“I got our pictures from DC developed,” Paul says. “We need more photos of us together, Nana is making a lot of demands.”

“Are you sure it’s Nana? Are you sure it’s not you?” Barney asks, teasing.

Paul laughs. “You got me. I just miss looking at your face.”

“Same here. Mail me a couple shots, will you?”

“Of course.”

*

Sunday, August 10, 1997

*

“I lied to you about why I left the Navy,” Barney says into the phone. Training is going well, and there’s only so many hours he can spend playing _Guess what else the movies got wrong about the FBI?_ And Paul wanted him to talk. So.

“Oh, I know,” Paul replies, his voice clear over the thousands of miles of phone line between them.

“What?” Barney asks, stunned. That was not the answer he was expecting. He was expecting something else; something...unhappy “Since when?”

Paul laughs. “Since the moment you lied to me about it. That first night. You’re a terrible liar, babe, you need to work on that in training.”

“You’re telling me that even though I lied to your face the very first day we met, not only did you willingly take me to bed, you then dated me? Twice?” Barney demands. He’s spent weeks (months, years) telling himself that he needs to come clean with Paul. That he needs to tell Paul about the things that have happened to him and the things that he’s done. Paul wants to hear them. Paul wants to understand him.

And Barney... _wants_ Paul to know these things about himself.

“I figured you had a good reason,” Paul is explaining gently. “You forget I was in the service, too. I know how it is in there. Maybe you got outed, maybe you fell for the wrong guy and quit, I dunno. You got out. I’m not gonna judge you for lying about how.”

Barney lets out a small, pained laugh. “Now I feel stupid.”

“Now you know how I felt when I fed everyone those salty cannolis.”

Barney takes a deep breath and lets it out, trying to calm his nerves and his heart. “I wanna tell you what happened, anyway.”

He knows it’s a test. Of Paul, and of himself. He thinks Paul knows it, too.

“I’m all ears, babe.”

Half an hour later, Paul says, “You know, you could have just told the captain, or the XO. Made a big stink about how morally offended you were that the CMC would accuse you of being gay, say you were going to tell your father all about it.”

“My father, who’d been dead for about 13 years at that point, and would’a beat my ass for getting into that kind of trouble?” Barney asks. He remembers what his father used to call men like him.

“ _They_ didn’t know that,” Paul points out. “Threatening to sic my father on people is one of the joys of my life. And you’ve met him. He’s harmless.”

Barney silently disagrees; Carlo’s hugs are extremely dangerous to his emotional balance. “I didn’t think of that, at the time. I didn’t...I didn’t realize that was an option. That there was any other option.”

“You were alone. You did your best. I’m not gonna blame you for it,” Paul says, like it’s the easiest thing in the world. Maybe for him, it is. But Barney’s been blaming himself for years.

Maybe it’s time he stopped.

*

Sunday, August 31, 1997

*

Barney calls like he always does, and Paul starts off with a family update, as he often does. Sometimes that involves passing messages from his parents to Barney and back again (what does he want for his birthday, is training going well, did he get the cookies Nana sent). Today, it’s, “Mom told me that last week, Dad went across town to this specialty food store, god knows why, something about this vinegar he can’t get anywhere else. He ran into his parents.”

“The ones who won’t speak to him because he married a Presbyterian?” Barney asks, reaching in his mind for Paul’s long-ago explanation of his family’s history. There was a rift on both sides when Carlo and Nellie married, one that’s continued for thirty-odd years with no detente.

It makes Barney feel a little bit closer to them, somehow. To Carlo, because he knows what it’s like to be abandoned, and to wonder why you can’t ever seem to be enough to make those who are supposed to take care of you...actually do it. And to Nellie, who faces it and deals with it and doesn’t let it stop her from fiercely loving the people she has left.

Paul is asking, with some sarcasm, “Does my dad have any other parents?”

“I’ve met your dad,” Barney counters. “He could get himself adopted.”

Paul pauses, considering, then concedes, “Good point. Well, those aren’t the ones he saw, he saw the bad ones.”

“What happened?”

Paul sighs deeply.  “Same as always. Awkward small talk, a few pointed comments. Asked how Julie’s wedding was, when it was four fucking years ago and they were, in fact, invited.”

“Breathe, babe,” Barney says softly. He knows how defensive Paul is over his parents. “Was your dad upset, seeing them?”

“Does anything upset him?” Paul asks, voice sharp, then sighs again. “I don’t know. Probably. Though, Mom’s the one who told me about it, not him. So, almost certainly.”

“I’m sorry for your dad, then,” Barney says. He doesn’t understand Paul’s parents, but he understands his grandparents far too well. Some people throw away their children. Sometimes when they’re three, or thirteen. Sometimes when they’re thirty. “Did he at least get the vinegar?”

Paul laughs, delighted at the question. “Yeah, he did. He was very proud, Mom said.”

“Good,” Barney says. “That’s good.”

They talk about other things, then, but the episode sticks in Barney’s mind. He wonders if these people might understand him better than he thinks, if he’d only give them the chance to try. Telling things to Paul has only led to more closeness, more honesty, more affection. Maybe telling Nellie and Carlo could lead to good things, as well.

He’s beginning to think that being part of a family again might be possible. He’s beginning to understand why Clint had clung so hard back then to the idea — and to Jackie, to Bailey, to Barney himself. Maybe this could work.

*

Friday, September 12, 1997

*

Two months into Barney’s training, Paul flies back to DC for a quick weekend visit. Barney doesn’t ask him to, doesn’t want to put him out, but he doesn’t say no when Paul says, “I know you’re busy, and if you’re too busy I won’t come. But I’d like to.”

“Okay,” Barney says. And, because he’s trying to be more honest this time around, adds, “I’d like that, too.”

Unwilling to bring Paul back to his shared dorm, Barney books a room in a nice hotel by the airport; when Paul arrives at nine that evening, they head straight up. Barney barely has time to throw Paul’s carry-on bag at the nearest chair before he’s being tackled backwards onto the bed and kissed. He kisses back, full of pent-up emotion, too much to put into words. He hasn’t liked being this far from Paul, not when they’d just gotten back together.

They eventually roll onto their sides, kisses slowing as they finally relax and realize they have all weekend. Paul pulls away first, just far enough to look into Barney’s eyes, and softly says, “Hey there.”

Barney feels his heart thump hard in his chest, wonders if Paul can hear it. “Hey,” he says back. He trails his hand up Paul’s side, under his shirt. “What do you want?”

Paul’s gaze heats up. “You.”

Ducking his head, Barney smiles. “You got me.”

Paul hums contentedly and leans up to pull off his shirt. Barney does the same, and then Paul reaches for him and goes to town on his neck, sucking and nibbling all the tender places he’s had memorized for years.

“Missed you,” Paul murmurs between kisses and gentle bites, and the sound of his voice makes Barney shivver. “Missed your hands...and your skin...mmm...and your mouth…”

“You want my mouth on you?” Barney asks, reaching for Paul’s pants and unbuttoning them easily.

Paul echoes the move, tugs Barney’s work slacks down far enough to get his hand inside and stroke him through his boxers. “Missed this, too. Wanna touch it..taste it…”

He licks his way up Barney’s neck, making everything tingle, and whispers, “Want it inside me.”

Barney’s hands spasm, clenching Paul’s biceps tightly before he can manage to loosen them. “That sounds nice,” he says, matching Paul’s tone, “but I was really hoping to ride you.”

A dismayed sound emerges from Paul’s mouth, the expression on his face matching it, and he says, “Thought about it on the plane. Whole time we were in the air, what it’d be like to have it inside—”

Before Paul can finish his sentence, Barney rolls them until he’s on top and starts kissing his way down Paul’s chest, scraping his teeth across ribs and nipples as he travels further south. When he gets to Paul’s hips, he pulls his jeans the rest of the way off, boxers too, and swallows down his cock, already hard.

“Mmmm Barney, that’s...mmmm...that’s good but that’s not—” His words fall away with a gasp when Barney takes him deeper into his throat and swallows.

Paul’s strong hands reach into his hair and grip hard, and then they’re pulling Barney up, up away from his cock, back up his body, till they’re face-to-face. Paul kisses him hard, and then he says, “Stop trying to distract me, and fuck me.”

Barney flinches.

He doesn’t mean to. Doesn’t _want_ to. But he does, and it’s enough to make Paul’s eyes clear, lust replaced with concern. It’s enough to make him say, “I’m beginning to think there’s a problem with this request.”

It’s not one that Paul has made often, and every other time, Barney has managed to distract him, using his mouth to make him see stars. Paul has never called him on it. Not until now.

Barney shakes his head and looks away, even though he’s still stretched out on top of Paul’s body. “I just don’t want to hurt you, that’s all.”

“What makes you think you’ll hurt me?” Paul asks. Then he frowns worriedly. “Do…do I hurt you when I top?”

“No! You’re great, it’s always great,” Barney says, shaking his head again.

“Okay, so what’s the problem? Do you just not like it?” Paul asks. Barney looks away and doesn’t answer, just wishing this conversation could be over, almost wishing the weekend could be over. But instead, Paul continues, “I’m only asking because I’m trying to understand...you’re always so enthusiastic about sex, this isn’t like you...”

Barney rolls off him, then, needing the space — even just a few inches of mattress. “I just want it to be good for you, to make you happy.”

Paul turns on his side, propping himself up on one elbow to look at Barney. He looks concerned, and worried, and Barney feels immensely guilty for ruining his night, possibly his weekend. “It does make me happy. I want to make sure it makes _you_ happy, too.”

“It does!”

“Does it?” Paul asks, voice a little harder now, the way it gets when he wants Barney to cut the bullshit and give him the _truth_. He hasn’t used it in a long time, now. “Because sometimes it feels like you go at sex like you’ve got something to prove.”

At that, Barney feels himself start to tremble, like the temperature’s suddenly dropped twenty degrees, and he’s naked and alone. He tries desperately to stop it, but he can’t control his body or what it does.

Paul continues, softer, “I like you no matter what our sex life is like. You don’t have to prove anything to me, okay?”

Barney’s trembling so hard now, his hands are visibly shaking, curled up as they are on his chest. Of course, Paul notices, takes his hands gently and asks, “Hey, hey, what’s the matter?”

“I don’t...I don’t want to hurt you,” Barney manages, clenching his teeth to stop them from chattering.

Paul squeezes back. “I know you won’t.”

“I don’t, I don’t want to be a man that hurts people,” he says, trying to explain, despite how much he just wants to curl up and let the shakes take him over. Paul deserves an explanation, whatever Barney can give him. “I don’t want to be that man.”

Paul doesn’t _get it_. “You’re not, you could never be.”

“I don’t want to be that man, I don’t want to be like him,” Barney repeats, words starting to fail.

“Like who?” Paul asks. Barney shakes his head and clutches Paul’s hands to his chest; he can’t explain any more right now. Paul stares at him for a few seconds, and Barney watches his quick mind working all the angles, taking all the puzzle pieces and fitting them together to form a perfect, horrible image. Barney can see the moment it all comes into focus; Paul grips his hands tighter and shuffles closer, staring intently into Barney’s eyes.

“You will never, ever be that guy, Barney. You don’t have it in you.” Barney shakes his head, because Paul doesn’t know, Paul doesn’t know what Barney’s done, the people he’s hurt, the pain he’s already caused. What’s to stop him from causing more? “Barney. You can’t hurt people like that. You’d take a bullet for someone before you’d hurt them.”

Barney’s body jerks; Paul catches it, could hardly miss it, and adds meaningfully, “You’d take a header down a staircase before you’d hurt someone. You’re not capable of it, Barney. You’re not that kind of man, okay?”

Paul waits until Barney nods, and then he pulls him close and hugs him tightly, running a hand up and down his back and into his hair.

It takes a few minutes for Barney to get his breath and body back, but when he does, he says, “Sorry for ruining the mood.”

Paul snorts. “I didn’t fly all this way for a booty call, Barn. I just wanted to see the Washington Monument again.”

The comment makes Barney huff out a whisper of a laugh, and Paul smiles in return. Wordlessly, he reaches for their clothes, piled haphazardly on the floor. Then he grabs the remote and turns on the TV to a random episode of Law & Order.

Within a few minutes, they’re curled up together in the bed in their usual position: Paul sitting up against the headboard and Barney curled up next to him, head in his lap. Paul combs his fingers through Barney’s hair, until he relaxes enough that his shoulders lose their tension and his breath evens out.

Eventually, the episode ends, and Paul says quietly, “You don’t have to tell me what happened. But it might help, if you do. “

Barney breathes out through his nose and closes his eyes — but all he sees on the backs of his eyelids are images from that night. He rolls over, instead, and looks up at Paul, who just seems sad.

Barney takes his hand and says, “You know what’s funny? I don’t even remember his name. We stayed at his house for months, but I couldn’t tell you his name or what town we were in.”

“He was your foster father?” Paul asks, like he already knows the answer, and he doesn’t like it.

“Yeah.” Barney nods.

Paul bites his lip. “How old were you?”

“Twelve,” Barney admits. It happened just after Clint turned ten. “I was twelve.”

Paul lets loose a long, slow breath. A muscle jumps in his jaw. He doesn’t let anything else show.

Barney focuses on the wall across the room, and continues the story. He’s never told it to anyone before. Everyone else who knew had been there for it, or there for the aftermath. “I knew I was gay, I’d known for a year or so, by then. I had a thing for Scott Baio. I guess he could tell.”

“It wasn’t your fault,” Paul interrupts, like he can’t help but say it.

“That’s not the point,” Barney snaps, surprising himself. “It still happened, he still...”

He takes a deep breath, focuses on the way Paul’s hand is gripping his, like he never wants to let him go. He goes on, “There was a night. He got in an argument with his wife, our foster mother. She had to go work the night shift and he didn’t want her to, or something. He was shouting. She left, slammed the door and everything. I wasn’t in bed with the other kids, I was...I don’t know what I was doing. He found me right after, and he was angry, and...”

He chokes on the words and buries his face in Paul’s lap.

Paul pets his hair, and says, “You don’t have to tell—”

“ _You_ wanted to know!” Barney grinds out, trying to hold back the sudden surge of anger, to not let it spill over onto Paul, to pull it back in on himself the same way he always does. “You wanted to know why...well, this is why!”

He pulls himself up and away, out of Paul’s space on the bed. Brings his knees to his chest and wraps his arms around them, holding tight. So long as he holds on, he can’t lash out. Glaring at the wall again, he pulls out whatever words he can find to describe that night and lets them loose. “He was angry, and I was right there. He grabbed me and threw me down on the dirty carpet and used his...his dick to rip me apart and it took me years trying to pull myself back together...but I did. I _did_ it.”

Barney turns to Paul, then, and looks at him. He looks like he’s been punched in the gut, and Barney wishes he hadn’t delivered that blow. But now that he’s started talking, he can’t seem to stop the words that erupt from his mouth like poison. “So yeah, I got something to prove, and I’ll ride you and I’ll suck you and I’ll, I’ll deep-throat you, but I won’t _ever_ do what he did.”

Paul reaches out and puts a tentative hand on his shoulder. His touch is so light, so careful. “Okay, okay, hey, it’s okay, you don’t have to, hey—”

That’s when Barney realizes he’s crying, that every gasping breath is punctuated by a sob, that his eyes have clenched shut under an onslaught of burning tears. He feels twelve again, powerless and terrified of the world and of himself. Of what he could do, if he doesn’t keep control.

The memories rise up, unbidden, unstoppable. Josh, smoking on the steps of Carson’s trailer when two little boys had come running up, begging to join the circus. Josh had called for Carson, pulled him aside when he arrived in a snit and whispered in his ear. Carson’s hard gaze had dropped to the blood on Barney’s legs before he nodded and ushered them all inside.

Clint got parked on the couch with a bag of chips and a soda, and Carson’s promise to teach him a magic trick. Josh took Barney to the bathroom. Asked if he could help him undress and shower, if that would be okay.

Barney had nodded. He hadn’t been afraid anymore. What’s the worst that could happen, that hadn’t already happened?

That’s what he’d thought. That’s what he’d thought at the time. Turns out? There’s a lot that could happen. He could get his brother shot. He could drive Jackie and Bailey away. He could punch Robbie in the face and make Paul leave him. No matter how well things go, eventually it all comes crashing down. This time —  with Paul, with the FBI — it’s still all temporary. At any given moment, he could lose it all.

“You’re not gonna lose me,” Paul whispers, rocking him in his arms, and Barney realizes just how much of what he’s thinking has come out of his mouth. “I love you, and I’m not going anywhere. There’s nothing you can do that will make me leave.”

Barney buries his face in Paul’s chest and falls apart.

*

Saturday, September 13, 1997

*

Barney wakes up. His face is swollen and crusty, and his head feels like he drank too much last night. He wonders why, for a moment, and then remembers. He freezes.

“I ordered coffee and pancakes from room service,” Paul says, sitting up next to him smelling freshly showered. “Should be here in a few minutes.”

Barney doesn’t want to look at him and see how he feels about last night’s breakdown, too much truth and horror for one person to deal with. But gentle fingers on his chin tilt his head up. He opens his eyes and—

“Hey,” Paul says, smiling warmly and stroking his cheek. “Don’t start freaking out before coffee.”

He should make a joke, let out some sort of quip to put Paul at ease, but he can’t. He opens his mouth, but no words come out.

“Shower. Coffee. Then talk,” Paul orders, nudging him out of bed.

Barney escapes to the hotel bathroom, all fancy tile and shiny chrome fixtures, and wonders at his life.

Twenty minutes later, he comes out in fresh clothes to find breakfast has been delivered and laid out at the small table in the corner of the room. Paul hands him a cup of coffee and starts to turn back to the table. Barney grabs his hand and pulls him back, and the look Paul sends him is full of...understanding and compassion and grace, a thousand feelings he couldn’t name but is so, so grateful for nonetheless. His breath hitches. “Paul…”

“Sit. Eat,” Paul orders, leaning forward to kiss the corner of Barney’s mouth. Barney obliges.

Once they’re about halfway through their pancakes, Paul takes a fortifying swig of coffee and says, “I have two uncles, five cousins, and two grandparents who all live in the same city as where I grew up, and I’ve never met them because they don’t like my mom. I have another grandfather I met once, and he told me I was going to hell.”

“I’m sorry,” Barney says.

Paul rolls his shoulders. “About once every five or six years, I get really upset about the whole situation. I’m due for a relapse in a year or two, and I’m counting on you to help me through it.”

“Okay,” Barney agrees, because of course he will. He doesn’t know how they got on this topic, after last night, but it goes without saying that he’ll be there. He’ll do whatever he can to help Paul.

Paul points his fork at him, and warns, “I’ll be a real asshole about it, though. Any mention of family or grandparents or ‘Blood is thicker than water’ and I’ll go off. Think you can handle that?”

“Yes,” Barney says easily, because Paul in his most asshole moods can still only reach mediocre levels of petty. Barney raised a teenager by himself. Crabby Paul is _nothing_. “I can handle that.”

“Good,” Paul replies, and dives back into his pancakes.

Barney watches him out of the corner of his eye as he finishes up his own breakfast, but Paul gives nothing else away. As Paul sops up maple syrup with his last bite of pancake, Barney knocks back the last of his coffee, sets the mug down, and finally says, “We were gonna talk. About last night.”

Paul takes his time refilling both their mugs. _Petty. Asshole_.

“You’re killing me here, man,” Barney says when Paul starts fiddling with the sugar packets, and that just makes Paul laugh.

“There you are,” he says, still smiling.

Barney grunts. “You’re not as hilarious as you think you are.”

“Yes I am,” Paul says. He brings his coffee cup to his mouth with exaggerated slowness, takes a loud slurp, and closes his eyes and hums as if it were the best tasting coffee he’d ever had (it is not).

“I tell you about the worst thing that ever happened to me, and the next morning you tease me and act like nothing’s wrong?” Barney asks, and he’s half joking, half not. He doesn’t know what to feel or think or do right now. He’s taking his cues from Paul, but Paul is just acting...normal. Like knowing doesn’t change anything. Like Paul is still the same, Barney is still the same, their relationship is all still the same.

“I’m glad you told me,” Paul finally says, putting the mug down. “Because it helps me understand you, and it helps me to not accidentally hurt you. By — and this is just a random example — asking you to do a sex thing you don’t want to do.”

Barney stands up, at that, and walks anxiously to the door and back. “I don’t want you to sit there and think, ‘Oh, poor Barney.’”

“Why not?” Paul asks, frowning as he watches Barney pace. “So what if I spent the night sitting up feeling sorry for twelve-year-old Barney? An awful thing happened to him. Twelve-year-old Barney deserves having someone feel bad for him...someone to plot ways to track that guy down and make him pay for it. Twice.”

“Please don’t,” Barney begs as he makes another turn. “I don’t...just, just don’t.”

“Okay,” Paul agrees easily. “I won’t.”

Barney stops, because pacing is doing nothing for his nerves and taking him too far away from Paul. He sits back down, instead, and reaches for the coffee. Paul hands him a sugar packet, and he bats it away with a put-upon scowl, like always.

Paul smirks, takes a sip from his own mug, and asks, “Do you regret telling me?”

That makes Barney pause. The worst thing that ever happened to him. He talked about it, he told somebody, and this is the only consequence: that his boyfriend wants to make him feel better.

“No,” he admits quietly, staring down into his drink. “I’m glad I told you.”

Paul is silent, and Barney risks a glance up. There’s that look again. That soft expression, like a sunrise. Paul blinks, and the moment passes, and he says, “Me, too.”

They finish their coffee, and start their day.

It’s not until hours later, when they’ve walked the National Mall and asked a tourist to take a picture of them posing arm-in-arm in front of the Lincoln Memorial, and are resting on a park bench looking out over the tidal basin, that the subject comes up again. And it’s Barney who brings it up.

“I know that the act...the act wouldn’t make me...be like him,” Barney begins, voice low, with his head on Paul’s shoulder. Paul listens patiently as he searches for the right words. “I guess it’s so connected with pain, in my head, that I have to avoid anything that would...would give me the chance to hurt you.”

“You don’t ever have to do it, babe,” Paul murmurs back. “You can avoid it forever, and I won’t care. I just don’t want you thinking you have to blow my mind every time we have sex in order for you to deserve it. You deserve to feel good just ‘cause you’re Barney. Not because you’re a sex god.”

Barney snorts, and leans a little closer into Paul’s side.

*

Saturday, November 15, 1997

*

Paul and Juan pick Barney up from the airport — Juan’s new spoiler could launch them into _outer space_ — and bring him to his favorite Mexican restaurant, where Debbie and Lida are holding a table.

“Tell us _everything_ ,” Lida says, leaning forward excitedly. “Are you going to chase bad guys all day? Are they going to give you a gun?”

“I’m a forensic accountant,” Barney replies, baffled. “I’ll be sitting at a desk all day, figuring out where the bad guys hide their money. No chasing. No shooting.”

“Aww,” Lida says.

“No one will be shooting at Barney, and you’re _disappointed_?” Debbie asks, reaching for more freshly-made chips.

“Barney can handle it,” Lida replies.

“I’d rather he didn’t have to,” Paul pipes up, his arm slung across the back of Barney’s chair. “But that’s just my personal opinion.”

“When do you start not being shot at?” Juan asks, finally looking up from the chips and salsa appetizer.

“The Monday after Thanksgiving,” Barney replies.

And then Juan has to ask, “You gonna tell everyone there you got a gay boyfriend and live in the Gayborhood with the gays?”

Barney can feel Paul looking at him when he answers, “I told them that when they recruited me. I don’t think that’s something they’re gonna forget.”

The arm across his back relaxes. Barney leans back onto it, and adds, “But if they need a reminder, I’m happy to tell them again.”

*

Monday, December 1, 1997

*

No one in the office asks where he’s from, where he went to school, or whether he’s married with kids. What they want to know is: What did he learn at Quantico? What questions does he have? And, most importantly — how was he able to take down Roxxon so easily from the inside?

Charlene McGeary — who believed him that first day, recruited him that first day — is his new boss. She’s brilliant. A hardass. A leader. And the only personal question she asks is, “Boyfriend happy to have you home?”

“Yes, ma’am,” Barney says, eyeing her warily.

“Good,” she replies, and then immediately goes back to business. “Now, hand me that box, I’m going to start you off looking through old cases for…”

*

Monday, December 22, 1997

*

His third week as a probationary FBI agent, Barney discovers that he can run deeper, more extensive record searches than he ever thought possible. There are strict rules about what, who, and how he can search, and why. Normally Barney wouldn’t risk it, but for this...this is worth the risk.

He searches, but in the end, he still can’t find Clint, no matter what information he feeds into the computer.

But by knowing the name of the hospital, the birth date, and all those other little details that he thought so inconsequential at the time, he can find other records. Records on a little boy named Bailey Barton, born July 23, 1988, adopted ten days later, and given the new name Bailey Ramirez.

He’s in the fourth grade in a small town outside Louisville.

His adoptive mother and her partner have never been arrested, have never had a complaint made against them to Child Protective Services, have every appearance of being stand-up citizens. Bailey has two moms and a grandfather, and a house with a low mortgage rate.

Barney resists setting up an alert to let him know if any of that changes, because that _will_ get his searches noticed, his alert rescinded, and possibly his ass out on the street. Instead, he buys a subscription to the Louisville Courier-Journal and leaves his nephew to his life.

*

Wednesday, December 24, 1997

*

Barney gets a week off for Christmas. He’s not a lead investigator, he’s still in training, and he’s not working any active cases, so when the office goes quiet for the holiday, he joins Paul again on his trek to Pittsburgh.

“There’s one of me and about forty-seven of them,” Paul explains when Barney asks. They’re waiting for the plane to taxi out to the runway. “Easier for me, and now you too, to go to them than for them to come to us.”

“They ever visit you?”

Paul shrugs, and leans his head on Barney’s shoulder. It’s five in the morning, and after a late shift last night, Paul’s had about two hours of sleep. “My parents came out the first year I was here. Said the beach was nice. But they don’t like planes, so they haven’t been back. It’s fine.”

“Is it?”

Paul shrugs again. “Wake me when we’re in the air and there’s coffee.”

“Are you falling asleep just to avoid awkward family questions?” Barney asks.

Paul lets out a fake snore. Barney lets him be.

*

“Barney!” Carlo calls, weaving through the crowd. “I could find that red hair anywhere!”

He hugs Barney before Barney can think to dodge.

“Seriously?” Paul asks, standing right next to them. “What am I, chopped liver?”

Carlo lets go of Barney and pats him on the cheek, smiling. “You’ll get used to the hugging someday, don’t worry.”

“Leave him alone, Dad,” Paul protests. Then his father hugs him, and the way they both just relax into the embrace makes Barney hope he gets used to the hugging soon, too.

*

“Have some more lasagne, Barney,” Paul’s aunt, the one on the Italian side, says. He can’t remember her name. She’s the one hosting dinner, the only one on that side who still speaks to Carlo, and Barney can’t remember her name.

“He’s full, Andrea, leave the poor boy alone,” Nellie says.

“I’m just offering lasagne, Nellie, it’s not a crime,” Andrea shoots back.

“Next year, you’re on your own, Barney,” Nellie says, ignoring her sister-in-law. “I’m going to the casino instead.”

“She says that every year,” Paul whispers from the seat next to him. “She’d never pass up Aunt Andi’s Christmas dinner.”

“I heard that,” Nellie says, scowling.

“So did I,” Andrea says, definitely not scowling.

Christmas is exhausting.

*

Thursday, December 25, 1997

*

In the early morning hours of Christmas Day, there’s no one in the house but Barney, Paul, Carlo and Nellie.

Paul’s siblings have all moved out, and are spending the morning at their own homes with their children, as are the random aunts, uncles, and cousins that Barney has met two or three times so far. Even Nana is sleeping in at home.

The weather report predicts flurries and snow showers, but so far, nothing’s sticking. It’s cold and brisk outside, to be sure, but not quite freezing.

The four of them quietly make coffee and cinnamon rolls, and sit around in front of the tree. It’s quiet, and peaceful, and it gives them all the opportunity to actually hold a meaningful conversation for once.

“I know your parents have been gone for a while now, Barney, but Paul said you had a brother?” Carlo asks quietly. “What’s he doing with himself today?”

“Dad—” Paul begins, because he doesn’t know the full story, doesn’t know most of it, but he knows enough. “Barney, you don’t have to—”

“It’s okay,” Barney tells him, resting a hand on his knee to settle him. “I want to.”

Paul sits back into the couch cushions and looks at him, shocked. But Barney meant what he said about wanting Paul to listen. And that means telling him things. Telling his parents things about his past that they don’t necessarily need to know...but that they _should_ know. So that they can know the real him, make their own decisions about him untempered by Paul’s regard.

“I had — have — a brother. Clint. He’s,” Barney does some quick math, and is...he can’t believe how much time has gone by since he lost Clint to bad choices and circumstances. “God, he’s 27 now. All grown up. And I haven’t seen him in almost ten years.”

Paul winces and nods to himself. He’s never asked Barney about the name on his chest.

It’s Carlo who asks, “Did you have a falling out?”

“I...no. Maybe. I don’t know.” He takes a fortifying sip of his coffee and goes on. “I had this plan, back then.”

Paul snorts, like he can’t help himself. Barney elbows him gently, “Yeah, I know. My first mistake. But I had this plan: we were living with the circus, and when Clint turned 18, we were going to enlist together and...and get out, and make a new life. A better one, where we’d...I wanted to give him stability, I guess.”

“But something happened?” Carlo asks, leaning forward in the armchair to set his coffee down on the table.

“It was my fault,” Barney admits, and dodges the elbow Paul throws at him for blaming himself. Paul’s told him more than once to stop eating his mistakes. “Trickshot, one of the others at the circus, he...he needed help robbing some houses in town. He said he’d make Clint help him if I didn’t. So I went with him — and it was so stupid, Clint never would have agreed, he was a good kid, he wouldn’t have — anyway.”

“You went in Clint’s place to protect him,” Paul observes quietly, even as Carlo and Nellie share a significant glance in front of them. “Barn, you gotta stop this self-sacrifice habit.”

“I’m trying, aren’t I?”

Paul reaches up and brushes a lock of hair off Barney’s forehead. The curl springs back immediately into place, and Paul smiles. “Yeah, you are.”

“I tried to…to protect him, but it didn’t matter. Clint followed me and confronted us. He was…” Barney shakes his head ruefully, thinking back to Clint’s indignance, his resentment that Barney of all people was putting their plan on the line. All those lectures, all that fighting, and Barney was putting the whole thing at risk for some petty B&E. “He was just as pissed as I expected. Started yelling, and Trick...”

He breaks off with a gasp, starts to regret telling this story at all, because he doesn’t know how he can possibly finish it. The pain in his chest is back, dark clouds gathering on the edges of his vision.

“What did Trick do?” Paul asks, quiet and solemn in his ear, and it grounds Barney, brings him back to the present: Pittsburgh, not Akron. The Costa house, the living room, the floral slipcovers on the couch and the Christmas tree glittering in the corner.

“He shot him. In...in the chest. Right, right here.” He raises a hand, presses it to his own chest — the right side, just between his fifth and sixth ribs, just above where his abs meet his pecs. An inch lower, and the bullet would have pierced Clint’s liver. An inch to the left, it would have pierced his heart.

Nellie is next to him, suddenly, sandwiching him with Paul on his other side. Her hand is on his back, rubbing tight circles between his shoulder blades. It’s...surprisingly soothing. It disperses the clouds rolling through his mind, wards off the thunder, lets him take in a new, fresh breath of air.

“Trick shot him, and he fell, there were these stairs off the sidewalk, and he fell, and I just...watched. And then Trick ran in one direction, and I ran in the other.”

“And you thought he was dead,” Paul figures out. “That’s why the tattoo.”

“Yeah,” he rasps.

“Oh, Barney.” Nellie breathes, keeping up those circles on his back, the ones that are making him gently sway back and forth with every orbit. “When did you find out he wasn’t?”

Barney looks down at his hands. “I got, I got a letter from him in the mail, six weeks later.”

“Jesus,” Carlo says. Barney glances up at him and finds nothing but compassion writ large across his face. “That’s a hell of a long time, son.”

Nodding, Barney admits, “It was...it was the worst six weeks of my life. And then I got, I got this note, telling me he was alive, that I had to pick him up from the hospital back in Cleveland.”

“Did you?” Nellie asks, no judgment in her tone.

“I...no, I went. I went and he…” He coughs, remembers Clint’s chart and the list of ailments that seemed to take up page after page of injuries and treatments. A record detailing every hurt, every pain, every new scar, from the pins in his leg to the loss of his hearing. “Gunshot to the upper chest, severe blood loss, shock, collapsed lung, broken ribs, concussion, sprained wrists, shattered tibia, and a fractured kneecap. And then panic attacks, and torn stitches, abscesses in his arms, and...”

Nellie’s hand pauses for a moment during the recap, then continues its path, a little slower, but firmer. “You spoke with his doctor?”

“Swiped his chart,” Barney explains. “Had to know. What he needed. We were...we were living out of a camper, you know? This ‘77 Dodge Rockwood, little 18-footer, and—”

“You left him at the hospital,” Paul says. It’s not a question. It’s not a judgment. He says it like it was the only possible choice for Barney at the time, and hearing it makes something in Barney’s chest loosen for the first time in a decade. Even this...even this, Paul understands.

“I didn’t...I didn’t really have custody of him, I never...” Because they were both kids who ran away from the system. It was why everything hinged on Clint turning 18. Barney raised Clint, took care of him, but he couldn’t give parental permission. “I thought, if he was alone, and a minor, the state would have to do for him. And they did.”

“Oh, Barney,” Nellie says again. “You were a good brother to him.”

Barney snorts, tries to reel his emotions back in. “I left him. I yelled at him, and hurt him, and made him cry.”

“And you found him the help he needed,” Carlo says. His expression hasn’t shifted at all. “I’m proud of you.”

Shaking his head, refusing to let Carlo’s regard take him out at the knees, Barney repeats, “I left him. Made him hate me. And I haven’t seen him since. I tried, I…”

He trails off, failure tightening his throat.

“You looked for him?” Nellie asks.

“After I got out of the Navy,” Barney says, still so pissed at himself for waiting so long — too long — his fear of Clint’s hatred winning out over _sense._ “I went to Cleveland and…his foster parents, his roommates, his friends, I found all of them except, except him. Except Clint. I call them, once a year I call them and ask if they’ve see him, if they know, but. I can’t find him,”

“Did you ever tell the police what happened?” Carlo asks.

Barney shakes his head. “Carson didn’t want them involved. And then afterward, when I went back to look for him...Clint was out of the hospital and out of the foster system, so what could they do?”

“If he’s been recruited by the armed forces somewhere, they’d know,” Carlo explains, leaning back finally in his seat. “And if there isn’t any truth to that story, they’d still know if he’s been hospitalized since then, or had a run-in with the law, or even a most recent address.”

For the first time in years, Barney starts to — maybe, possibly — hope. “Isn’t it too late to do what you’re saying, file a missing person report?”

It’s Nellie who answers with a shrug and, “It’s never too late to try.”

*

Saturday, December 27, 1997

*

Paul’s dad drives Barney to Cleveland.

The drive from Pittsburgh is only two hours and change. They wake up early, pour fresh coffee into travel mugs, and pile into the car while the morning sky is still a dark grey. Paul falls asleep in the backseat almost immediately. Barney, bullied into the passenger seat, stares out the window as the sky lightens and wonders what he’s going to say about a cold case nearly a decade old.

They stop for pancakes at a hole-in-the-wall diner just outside the city, and then they head for the Cleveland police department.

Turns out, saying what he needs to say takes Barney four hours.

The detectives ask him different questions than Carlo and Nellie did, different questions than Carson did. They’re questions Barney learned about in training, that he’s learned how to answer the right way, give them the information they need with the least emotion, the least room for error.

Barney loses count of how many times he tells the story. He tells them about stealing from Carson and getting caught by Trick. He tells them about Clint confronting them on the sidewalk. He tells them what Trick said, and how he said it, and when he said it, and what he did before he put a bullet in Clint, and what he did after.

How Trick had smiled.

By the time they cut him loose, Barney doesn’t have an answer as to what happened to Clint after he left the Drenik’s. What he does have is the lead detective’s business card, and an open case number.

It’s a start.

Paul and Carlo are sitting on a bench waiting for him in the lobby, identical noses tucked into different books. Barney feels a flush of warmth when he looks at them — that they’re here, that they support him, that they want to help him even though he nearly got his brother killed, even though he’s made more and more mistakes since then. They don’t seem to care about any of that. Just about him.

It’s a lot to process.

He tucks the business card in his wallet, walks over to them, and lets Paul pull him into a tight hug.

“Everything go okay?” Paul asks. “You okay?”

“It went fine,” Barney answers, and he tightens his arms around Paul before releasing him slowly. “Let’s go home.”

*

Wednesday, December 31, 1997

*

They take a cab from the airport to Paul’s apartment. They empty their bags in Paul’s laundry hamper, then flop down next to each other on the couch. Paul looks around for the remote, then pauses, and looks around the living room again.

“Lost something?” Barney asks.

“Just the opposite,” Paul says. And before Barney can ask what that’s supposed to mean, Paul continues. “You should move in. Officially.”

Barney gapes for a second. All this time, they haven’t brought it up, the possibility, and now Paul — _Paul_ — is the one asking.

“Really?” is all he can manage.

“Yeah,” Paul says, nodding, all confidence. “I think it’s time we start planning for the future. What do you think?”

Barney digs his fingers into the couch cushion. This is commitment. This is real commitment they’re talking about.

But they’re already committed. They’ve _been_ committed. Since September. Since July. Since February. This just makes it...official.

“I’ve always liked your plans,” he says, making Paul bark out a laugh.

“Good,” he replies. “Glad you approve.”

*

Tuesday, January 13, 1998

*

With the start of the new year, Barney buys his first car — a used Toyota with good mileage and an extended warranty — increases his 401k withholding, and opens a small college savings account in Bailey’s name. He even convinces Paul to start putting part of his paycheck into an IRA.

His new government-employee health insurance kicks in, as well, and he uses it to go for his first medical visit since leaving the Balboa Naval Center with a clear bill of health.

The doctor’s office is part of a larger physician’s group, tucked away in a small medical center a few miles from where Barney works. It’s newly-built, with fancy tile in the entryway and mirrored elevators without a scratch or ding. The office itself is decorated in cool, trendy colors, with signed prints hanging on the walls. It makes Barney feel unsettled and out-of-place.

The nurses are nice enough, and the doctor appears competent. At the end of the physical exam, Doctor Snell declares Barney to be at the peak of health. He orders blood work and tells Barney that, unless something comes up in the labs, he’ll see him again in a year.

*

Tuesday, January 27, 1998

*

Barney’s desk phone rings at quarter till five in the afternoon. The caller ID lists the physician’s office, so he answers with, “Hello, this is Barney Barton.”

“Mr. Barton, this is Dr. Snell calling,” the doctor himself says.

“Hey, Dr. Snell, how are you today?”

“I’m doing well, Mr. Barton, thank you for asking.” The doctor’s voice is calm and measured, and it makes something in Barney’s gut twist. “I’m calling with regards to your blood work. Since it had been so long since your last exam, I ordered a full work-up.”

“Okay,” Barney says, wishing he would cut straight to the point and stop stressing him out. It’s probably something simple, that the doctor will tell him he needs to stop eating tacos three nights a week. “What do I have, high cholesterol? Diabetes?”

“No, Mr. Barton,” Dr. Snell says. And then he says the words that turn Barney’s world upside-down.

“I’m afraid you’ve tested positive for HIV.”

Vertigo slams into every one of Barney’s senses, and his stomach swoops dangerously. He feels like he’s falling. He doesn’t know where the ground is. He has...he has...?

“Mr. Barton? Are you there?”

“Yeah,” Barney says. The words feel like they come from someone else, far off in the distance, where thunder clouds are gathering. “I’m here.”

“I’m transferring your care to the city’s HIV clinic. Your appointment with them is on the thirteenth,” Dr. Snell says. He gives him the address, and the name of the specialist Barney will be seeing. Barney writes it all down mechanically, the words barely reaching him through the storm wailing in his ears.

“Can’t you...can’t you be the one...?” Barney tries to ask. He doesn’t want to bounce around to different doctors, he wants to stay where he is. If he’s...sick. If he’s sick like Josh was sick. If he’s going to...

“To be honest, Mr. Barton, I’ve never had an HIV-positive patient,” Dr. Snell admits, all matter-of-fact, like he hasn’t just upturned Barney’s whole world. “I wouldn’t begin to know how to treat you.”

The rejection stings, and for a moment all he can see, all he can think about is the hospital that wouldn’t take Josh, in the end. Even when he was dying. This doctor apparently feels the same way, doesn’t want to treat Barney or have him in his fancy office.

The doctor continues, “The HIV clinic wants additional blood work, so I’m sending the order to the lab. Stop by in the next few days when you have a chance.”  

“Okay,” is all Barney can manage. He doesn’t want to be on the phone anymore. He needs to get away, needs to _run_.

“Do you have any questions for me?”

“No, sir.”

There’s a pause, and then Dr. Snell says, more gently than ever, “The clinic will get you set up with treatment. This isn’t a death sentence anymore, Mr. Barton.”

“Yes, sir,” Barney agrees. “Thank you, sir.”

The doctor doesn’t sound convinced, but he accepts it. “Call my office if you have any questions.”

Barney puts the receiver back on the hook, and bolts to the men’s room just in time to throw up his lunch. He’s shaking, and sweating, and freezing cold, curled up on the floor of the bathroom stall. No one else is there, and the harsh wheezing of his breath echoes across the tiles like the beginning of a windstorm.

It’s come for him. It has him. First, it got Josh. Then Kevane and Todd. Barney was careful, everything had been going so well: Paul, the apartment, his job...he thought he was safe. He thought he might be able to escape.

The terror that’s been driving him for decades rises up to choke him. He can’t stop it. Not after so many years of swallowing it down again and again. When Dad would fly into a rage and beat him, would beat Clint, would beat Mom. When the police told him his parents were dead — his mother was dead — burned up in a fiery crash. When he lay, pushed down roughly onto a threadbare carpet, trying not to scream and wake up the other kids. When Clint fell. When Jackie left. When Robbie finally punched back.

He leans against the wall and tries to breathe through it, to calm himself before anyone comes in and sees him. The first person to ask him what’s wrong is going to hear the truth, and he can’t risk that. Not now.

Eventually, Barney manages to peel himself up off the floor, exit the stall, and splash cold water on his face until the redness fades. He makes it back to his desk without running into anyone, sits down, and stares at the two framed photos on his desk. One is of Clint, taken on his sixth birthday, before everything went wrong. There’s chocolate cake in his hair, and he’s grinning. The other one is of Barney and Paul, arms wrapped around each other, standing in front of the Lincoln Memorial, obviously in love.

He’s going to have to tell Paul. And for all that he’s said about his past, for all that he’s shared over the last year, he has _no idea_ how to tell him this.

He still feels like he’s falling. He wonders how badly it will hurt when he finally hits the ground.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Spoilery explanation as promised at beginning of chapter: In this chapter, Barney is diagnosed with HIV, an incurable (but manageable with treatment) viral infection that can lead to immune suppression, AIDS complications and death. 
> 
> Next chapter is complete, I just need to polish up one final section. Expect the new chapter within a week.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to Laura Kaye, Kathar and Shell for betaing!
> 
> Warnings for:  
> \- Fatalistic/doomsday thinking, misplaced guilt, and depression  
> \- Sex issues  
> \- Discussions of HIV, including with a health provider  
> \- Discussion of past childhood sexual assault  
> \- Very minor blood mention

*

Saturday, January 31, 1998

*

Barney wakes up.

Paul is laying down next to him, smiling gently. “Your hair is a disaster.”

“Of course it is,” Barney grumbles, raising a hand to smooth it down uselessly. “I was sleeping.”

“You want to know a secret?” Paul asks, leaning close to nuzzle his ear.

Barney swallows down a lump trying to form in his throat. He hasn’t told Paul yet. Knows that at some point, he has to. Knows that as soon as he does, his whole entire world is going to come crashing down. For now, he plays along. “What’s your secret?”

“I can always tell how stressed you are by how crazy your hair is in the morning,” Paul confesses. He reaches out and places a gentle hand on Barney’s side. “You want to talk about it? You worked late every night this week.”

Barney _was_ late. He’s thrown himself into his job, working on cases with a single-mindedness that can’t quite drown out the thunder echoing in his ears. Charlene has twice now told him to slow down before he misses something, but he can’t stop. Once he loses Paul, the job will be the only good thing he has left in his life.

“It’s just my first active case. A lot of work. Not a lot of leads. Nothing to talk about, really.”

“Okay,” Paul agrees. “Thought I’d ask. Wanna get dressed, go out for a nice breakfast?”

That’s the very last thing Barney wants to do. Shaking his head, he says, “Too many people out there. Think I might try to sleep in a little more, anyway.”

“How about I go get something and bring it back?” Paul offers.

Barney closes his eyes and nods, because Paul can’t be put off trying to comfort him, even if he’s wrong about the reason why. “Sounds good.”

Paul leaves, and Barney wonders if he can just spend the weekend in bed. Wonders if he should start to pack, start looking for a new place in another part of town, stop delaying the inevitable. Paul might not...Paul probably won’t leave him when he finds out. Paul is too accepting, too kind, too committed to Barney to break up with him — at least immediately.

Which means Barney will have to be the one to break it off. Before Paul gets too invested, before it starts to burden him. Barney remembers how he felt after Josh died. He doesn’t want Paul to have to go through that. Not when he could prevent it.

*

Saturday, February 7, 1998

*

Barney works late every night, and then goes into the office over the weekend, because he can’t spend a full day with Paul and still pretend everything is alright.

“It’s an important case,” he says as he gets dressed in his work clothes. “It’s my first big case, and I’m not making any headway on the accounts. I’ve got to crack this.”

“You keep working this hard and this long, you’re going to crash and burn,” Paul warns.

Barney shakes his head, because Paul’s closer to the truth than he realizes. The specialist appointment is on Friday. He just needs to make it till then. Find out how long he has. Then he can make the decisions he needs to make. “Give me another week, and I’ll have it figured out, I promise.”

Paul is naked as the day he was born, and still flushed from his failed attempt to initiate morning sex that had Barney bolting to the shower instead. In a rare show of insecurity, Paul asks, “Everything’s okay, right? You’re not avoiding me?”

“Not avoiding you,” Barney lies, stepping close and kissing him gently on the forehead. “Just working.”

“Alright,” Paul says, accepting the story (for now). “Go save the world.”

Barney leaves. He does get work done on his cases. He also checks the newspaper classifieds for apartment listings, to see if anything is available starting next weekend.

He’ll tell Paul on Friday. Paul will kick him out or he won’t, but either way, Barney will leave quietly. It’s for the best, the best way to keep Paul _safe._ To keep death from coming for Paul, the way it came for Josh, the way it’s coming for Barney.

*

Monday, February 9, 1998

*

When Barney steps in the lobby at ten till eight in the morning, Charlene is waiting for him. She falls into step beside him as he heads to the elevator, and says, “There’s a SHIELD agent in your office.”

“A who agent?” Barney asks, perplexed.

“SHIELD. Strategic Homeland—”

“Those jerks with the big ugly building in DC?” Barney asks. Charlene nods. “What is one of them doing here?”

“He says he needs to talk to you about a case,” she replies. She’s not curious. Charlene is never curious, because she always already knows the answer. “I called his supervisor; he’s legitimate. Answer his questions and try not to start an inter-agency jurisdictional battle. I just finished cleaning up after the last one.”

“I’ll do my best,” Barney promises.

Charlene shakes her head. “I know you will. Call me in if he gives you trouble.”

“I will.”

Barney steps into his office and eyes the agent waiting in his visitor’s chair. The man stands; he appears to be around thirty, with a defined jawline, cleft in his chin, and blue eyes under light-brown hair. He’s about four inches shorter than Barney and looks like he might be an asshole.

“Agent Dustin Hoernecke, with SHIELD,” the man says, introducing himself and confirming Barney’s suspicion.

“Agent Barney Barton, FBI,” Barney says. They shake hands and yep, asshole. “What case can I help you with, Agent Hoernecke?”

Hoernecke rattles off a number, and Barney freezes. It’s the same case number that’s been on a business card in his wallet for six weeks. Clint’s case number.

“That’s not an FBI case,” Barney says, sitting at his desk and gesturing the other man back into the visitor chair. “That’s a Cleveland PD case.”

“Now it’s a SHIELD case,” Hoernecke says.

SHIELD. Which has a reputation of dealing with the creepy, spooky, and weird. Not decade-old attempted murders in the Midwest. “Why?”

“What made you reopen this case last Christmas, Agent Barton?” Hoernecke asks, instead of giving a goddamn straight answer.

“My in-laws suggested it,” Barney says shortly. “Why is it now a SHIELD case?”

“Have you heard from your brother recently?” And that, that’s too casual, the way Hoernecke asks that.

Barney looks at him again. Takes a few moments to visibly, obviously size him up. The tension in his shoulders. The way he glances to the left, to the photo on Barney’s desk. The set of his jaw.

“When did _you_ last hear from him?” Barney counters. The flinch is minute, but it’s there, and Barney knows he made a hit.

“Never met him,” Hoernecke says, and it’s a lie. Oh, that’s a big lie. “But I need you to answer my questions.”

The SHIELD agent hasn’t been in his office five minutes and Barney’s already tired of the games. He leans forward, hands clasped in together on the desk in front of him, and lays out the conclusions he’s already made. “You know him. You know he hates you, and you feel guilty about it, because you think you deserve it.”

Hoernecke’s lips twist, and he states, “So you have heard from him.”

“I have not seen him. I have not spoken to him. I have not had any sort of contact with my brother since 1988. But you knew that already before you got here,” he adds. “So tell me now what you really want from me, so that I can give it to you and then show you the hell out of my office.”

Hoernecke blinks at him for just a moment, then recovers. He leans down to pick up his briefcase and pulls out a brown file folder, but doesn’t hand it over.

“What is that?” Barney finally asks.

“SHIELD is very protective of its agents, and fully investigates any and all threats to them or their covers, identities, missions and assignments,” Hoernecke explains.

“I’m a threat to SHIELD?” Barney asks, incredulous. “I’m a probie accountant for the FBI. I’m barely a threat to the assholes we investigate. I’m not a fucking threat to SHIELD.”

Hoernecke’s recovered himself fully, now, and he stares back at Barney coolly. There’s more judgment in his gaze than Barney would ever expect. He opens his mouth, and suddenly all of Barney’s sins come pouring out.

“Clint Barton was the victim of an attempted murder by his mentor, aided and abetted by you — his brother. At which point, you abandoned him and left him for dead. Then, later, you abandoned him again to the Ohio state foster system.”

Barney feels himself go suddenly pale, because that right there — that’s his life. That’s his legacy, right there in a nutshell. Barney Barton, life destroyer. It doesn’t matter what Nellie and Carlo say — it doesn’t matter what he _meant_ to do. He still left his brother behind.

Hoernecke notices, of course he does, but he continues without pause. “Your actions left him with long-lasting emotional and psychological damage. Your attempts to make contact with him are a credible threat to him and his mission.”

 _His mission._ Jesus Christ. No wonder Barney hasn’t been able to track Clint down. “He’s a SHIELD agent?”

“SHIELD found him. SHIELD picked him up. SHIELD trained him, supported him, and made him into who he is today.” Hoernecke’s face does that thing again, the guilty thing, and he adds, “No thanks to you.”

“What did you do to make it worse?” Barney asks, because he read this man right the first time and it’s only becoming more obvious with every word he says. “What did _you_ do to him?”

“That doesn’t matter,” he says, spitting the words out like he can’t stop them. “I’ve been sent to ascertain whether or not it would be within Agent Clint Barton’s best interests for you to be permitted to contact him.”

“It’s not. It’s not in Clint’s best interests.” Barney says, and that brings Hoernecke up short. Of course it does.

But Barney can’t barge in on Clint’s life. Not now, when he’d just be dumping all of his problems in his brother’s lap. Not when there’s no telling how long he’ll be around for him, no telling how long until he gets sick like Josh did, wastes away like Josh did. Clint doesn’t need to deal with Barney leaving him again. Better to keep that door closed.

“Then why the fucking production?” the other man demands, masking his confusion with aggression and attitude.

“I just…” Barney blows out a long breath and leans back in his chair, disengaging from the fight Hoernecke seems ready and raring to have. “I just wanted to know that he was okay. That he didn’t need anything.”

Hoernecke mirrors him, sitting back in the visitor’s chair and sighing as well. “He needs family. Not an idiot who’s going to hurt him again.”

Barney laughs without humor. “We talking about me or you?”

“My relationship with Clint is long over,” Hoernecke points out with a glare. “Dead and buried. So stop using it as a way to deflect everything back onto me. It’s not going to work out for you. At the end of this meeting, I decide what you get to know about him, including how to reach him.”

“I don’t want to reach him.”

Hoernecke spreads his hands wide, brown file folder still in hand. “All evidence to the contrary.”

“It’s like you said,” Barney points out. “He needs family. Not an idiot who’s going to hurt him again.”

Rolling his eyes, he finally puts the folder down in front of Barney. “Open to the first page.”

Barney shoots him a look that he ignores, and opens the folder.

Clint’s face stares back at him. A recent photo. Clint, as an adult. Barney’s breath catches in his throat, and his chest burns. Clint’s grown up. Clint’s grown up without him.

Next to the photo, Clint’s name and birthdate, and his rank: Specialist, Level 4.

Barney closes the file, hard, without looking at any more information on the page. He doesn’t want to know it, doesn’t need to know it. He shoves it back across the desk and into Hoernecke’s lap. “Just tell me that he’s healthy and financially solvent.”

All he gets back is a scowl.

“Please,” Barney adds. If Clint needs money, Barney will give it to him. If Clint is hurt, Barney will…he doesn’t know. Figure something out. But if Clint doesn’t need anything that Barney can provide with a cashier’s check in an unmarked envelope, then it’s better for him to not see Barney again, to not reconnect. To not be abandoned for a third time.

“He’s healthy and financially solvent,” Hoernecke finally answers. “What is wrong with you?”

Barney smiles at him grimly and rises from his seat, walking over to the door and opening it. His chest is burning. He hates this, he hates himself, he despises this entire fucking situation, but he’s got to _keep Clint safe_. “If you want to do what’s best for Clint, don’t tell him you met me.”

If SHIELD agents could goggle, Hoernecke would be doing that right now. He finally regains control of his face and gets up out of the visitor’s chair. He stops, though, before leaving, and asks, “You’re really going to do this?”

“Yeah, I am. Thank you for coming, Agent Hoernecke.”

The SHIELD agent leaves, and Barney sits down at his desk to stare at his photo of Clint. That’s...that’s it. It’s over. It’s done. He had his chance, and he did the right thing, instead of the thing he wanted. Hoernecke will make sure Clint never has to feel the pain of losing his brother again. Once was enough.

Charlene swings by within two minutes. “Everything go alright?”

Barney shakes his head. “Guy was chasing down the wrong lead.”

“I’m sure he was,” Charlene replies, noncommittal. She steps in to place an envelope on Barney’s desk. “He asked me to give this to you when he left.”

“If it’s a phone number or an address, I don’t want it,” Barney bites out, staring down at the paperwork in front of him.

“It’s a photo, Barton.” Barney glances up at her. She’s giving him the same look that she did the first time he screwed up on the job: completely understanding, but a little bit impatient. “Have some coffee and get to work.”

She steps back out, and Barney picks up the envelope. There’s no note, no address, no phone number. Nothing but Clint’s photo from his file. Barney slips it into his bottom desk drawer, where he won’t be tempted to stare at it, and gets to work. If he’s going to die sometime soon...this is for the best.

*

Friday, February 13, 1998

*

Barney takes a half day off work, because he doesn’t know what the specialist will say, or how long the appointment will take, or whether he’ll be any use whatsoever once it’s over.

When he gets to the HIV/AIDS clinic downtown, there are three other men in the waiting room. The carpet is outdated and worn, the chairs plastic and uncomfortable. But Nicole, the nurse who leads him into the exam room, smiles at him like she means it.

“Pressure’s a little high today,” she comments as she finishes measuring his blood pressure.

“Can’t imagine why,” Barney says. His stomach is in knots and his chest is burning. Of course his blood pressure is high.

“Don’t run so many red lights on the way here,” she jokes, and Barney smiles at her, because she’s nice, and she’s trying.

“Dr. Beth will be here in just a minute, Barney, so just relax and get yourself settled,” Nicole adds as she walks out of the exam room, leaving Barney to his roiling thoughts.

Barney barely has time to work himself up again before there’s a light tap on the door, and the specialist steps in. She’s in her late forties, her strawberry blonde hair streaked with grey, and she gives Barney a friendly smile when he rises from his seat to shake her hand.

“Hi Barney,” she says warmly. “I’m Elizabeth Orr, but most people around here call me Dr. Beth. It’s good to meet you. I’m sorry it took so long to get you into see us.”

“It’s okay,” Barney says, swallowing down the lump in his throat. He’s gotten well-practiced at it the past two weeks. “It’s fine.”

“Okay, let’s get started.” Dr. Beth pulls up a rolling stool from the corner of the room and sits down facing Barney, close enough to reach out and touch. “You’ve had a little time to process the news. How are you feeling?”

“I’m…” He wants to say fine. But he’s tired. He doesn’t want to lie anymore. “I’m not so good.”

Dr. Beth nods, like that’s completely reasonable. Maybe it is. “It’s a lot to take in. HIV has a pretty scary history, but things are a lot better now than they used to be.”

“I don’t…” Barney starts. Stops. Clears his throat. Tries again. “I had a friend, Josh. He died. In 1986. He just, he wasted away. Is that going to happen to me, too?”

Shaking her head gently, Dr. Beth leans forward and places her hand on Barney’s forearm where it’s propped up on the armrest of his chair. “That’s not going to happen to you, Barney.”

“How do you know?” he asks. He rubs his chest with his free hand. All he’s been able to think about for the past two weeks is Josh. And Kevane, and Todd, and all of Debbie and Lida and Juan’s friends that they toast every year at Pride. “People, people die of this all the time. Everyone who gets it, they...they wind up dying.”

“Not anymore,” she corrects softly. “We’ve seen a whole new class of medications come out in the past few years that are highly effective at treating HIV. Deaths from AIDS dropped 47% just in the last year alone. There’s a lot to be hopeful for.”

Barney shakes his head, because hope has never, ever been his strong suit. Not after the life he’s led. “Really?”

Dr. Beth nods. “Really. With treatment, you’ll still be able to do everything you want to do, and live a full, healthy life.”

“What’s the treatment?” he asks, imagining IVs, needles, side effects.

“I’m going to give you a prescription for an antiretroviral medication called Combivir. You take it every day, and it helps your body fight off the virus.”

“But it doesn’t cure it, right?” Barney asks. “I’ll always have it.”

“It’s not a cure, no. But,” she explains slowly, “as long as you keep taking the medication, you’ll have a much lower risk for developing any kind of AIDS infection, or for transmitting it to others.”

A lower risk isn’t the same as no risk at all, though. Barney doesn’t play cards, doesn’t gamble or make bets, because he knows one thing for sure: the odds are never, ever in his favor.

Dr. Beth pulls out a small booklet from the pocket of her lab coat and goes through it with him, page by page. It explains how the virus is spread, how it attacks the body’s immune system, and how the antiretroviral drugs fight it. She concludes with, “Once we get your viral load down to undetectable levels, your T-cells will start to bounce back. And then, your main health worries will be the same as the rest of us: eating right, exercising, and quitting smoking.”

“I don’t smoke,” Barney says.

That news makes her smile. “Great! Before we go on, do you have any questions?”

So many questions are bouncing around Barney’s brain. He grabs for one at random. “How did...do you know when, who, how I got it?”

Dr. Beth’s smile fades. “That’s a tough question. For some people, who have had only one sexual partner, we pretty much know where and when they got it. When you’ve been sexually active for a long time, that starts to muddy the waters. Especially because the virus has such a long latency period.”

“So, there’s no way to know?” he asks. He’s been wondering, lately. Wondering if he picked it up after he and Paul broke up. Or if he got it in the Navy, or before the Navy, and just kept getting false negative test results.

And ever since the diagnosis, part of him has been trapped in 1981, in a dingy living room, asking the universe if that night was the source of more than just the occasional nightmare and a desperate need to prove to himself that he’s safe.

The doctor shakes her head. “Looking at your current viral load, I’d say you were exposed at least one or two years ago, maybe more. But everyone’s body reacts to the virus differently. We can’t do a countdown to the day.”

“That’s...that’s okay,” he says. So long as it wasn’t, wasn’t _him_ , he thinks he can accept not knowing where or how. “But how do I…? I need to tell people. That I’ve been with, so they can get tested. And, I need to tell my boyfriend. How do, how do I…?”

“There’s a service we can connect you with. Completely anonymous. You give them the contact information of anyone you’ve been with, and they reach out to them for you,” Dr. Beth explains, and Barney’s shoulders sag in relief. He wasn’t looking forward to making those phone calls, not on top of everything else, everything with Paul.

“Okay,” he says. “I’ll need...I’ll need to talk to them.”

Dr. Beth goes on. “For your current boyfriend, we have trained counselors who can be there with you when you talk to him, to help guide the discussion and answer any questions he has. They can’t tell him for you, but they can support you both during the conversation.”

Barney thinks about it for a few moments. About someone else being there when he talks to Paul. When this brief, idyllic period of his life ends. Someone else witnessing that.

“No…no, I’ll talk to him myself,” he says. He needs to do it soon. He can’t keep drawing this out. Paul hasn’t said anything else about the late nights, the sex Barney keeps refusing to have. But he will.

Dr. Beth finishes up the appointment, giving him the pamphlet they read together, another giant pile of papers and booklets and information, and the prescription for Combivir, with instructions to call her if he has any unusual side effects.

“Take the pills every day, and I’ll see you again in a few months to check your viral load and see how you’re doing,” she says, shaking his hand again.

He goes to pull his hand back, but she doesn’t let go; just holds it firmly in both of hers and looks him in the eyes. “It’s going to be okay, Barney. You’re going to be alright.”

“Thanks, doc,” he says, and pulls away. He doesn’t believe her. Can’t. It can’t be that easy. He knows full well there are no guarantees in life and death.

He fills the prescription in the medical center pharmacy and drives straight home. He needs to talk to Paul. He needs to end it tonight.

*

Barney walks into the apartment at a little after two in the afternoon. Paul works the four-to-midnight shift on Fridays; he’s up, and sitting at the kitchen table drinking coffee and working on the crossword. He’s showered and dressed and so, so beautiful. He looks up when Barney enters, and says, with surprise and no small amount of glee, “Hey! You’re home early!”

Then he gets a good look at Barney’s face, and his voice shifts from delight to obvious concern, “Is everything okay? Is it the case?”

“I need to talk to you,” is all Barney says. The stomach ache is back. He needs to get this done and get _away_.

Paul follows him into the living room and sits down next to him on the couch. He glances down at the paper pharmacy bag clenched in Barney’s hand, and asks, “What’s going on?”

“Paul,” Barney begins. Stops. Begins again. “Paul. I been...I’ve just been to the doctor. About my blood work.”

Paul sucks in a sharp breath, and his face goes stark white. He reaches forward and clutches Barney’s free hand. “What...what is it?”

Barney pulls away, and looks down at the coffee table. This is it. However Paul reacts, this is the end of their time together, these perfect weeks of sharing their apartment, meals, lives. He desperately, desperately _doesn’t want it to end._

“Baby, tell me,” Paul begs, shaking him out of his thoughts.

“The test came back and...they said I got HIV, Paul.” He’s not looking at him, but he hears the breath rush out of Paul all at once. “I can...I can go. If you want. I don’t, I don’t know if, if you’ll wanna still be with me...”

“Are you out of your mind?” Paul asks sharply, and that makes Barney look back up. Paul is...he’s pissed, and distraught, and...and reaching for Barney with both hands.

Barney leans forward just a hair, just a hope, and that’s all Paul apparently needs in order to pull him into the tightest hug of their lives. “How many times do I gotta tell you? How many times do I gotta tell you, Barn?”

“Just once more,” Barney whispers into Paul’s hair, feeling like his heart is breaking. Like it did when he saw Clint on the concrete, like when he held Bailey in his arms, like every time he’s lost something he can never, ever get back. “Please, just once more.”

“There is nothing, _nothing_ , that you can do, be, or have that will make me stop loving you. You _fucking moron_ ,” Paul grits out, shaking him a little. “When did you first find out? End of last month?”

Barney nods, barely manages to rasp, “How...?”

“You stopped talking to me. You stopped smiling. You think I couldn’t tell something was up?” Paul points out, his voice tight. “God, Barn, I thought you were leaving me.”

“I am. I’m sorry,” Barney whispers. “I have to go, it’s, it’s better for you, to not...have to watch me die. Better for me to leave now, before you get hurt.”

“ _You are not going to die_!” Paul growls, like he’s trying to use anger to hide his tears. Barney can hear them anyway. Tears, and terror, and the same fear that Barney had when Josh first got sick. “The new medications they have now, they _work_. And even if they don’t work, even if you do die, I’m gonna be right here by your side for all of it. I _want_ to be. Because I love you. Okay?”

“No, it’s, I can’t put you through that...I can’t make you watch...I have to _protect_ you,” Barney chokes out, shaking his head frantically. He’s lost control of the conversation, of his words, everything.

“I have plenty of people to protect me,” Paul says fiercely. “If you leave, who’s gonna protect _you?_ Who’s ever been there to protect you, Barn?”

“Josh was,” Barney admits after a moment, because he can’t not. “Josh did, and then he died, and it...”

He takes a deep breath, grasping for calm, for control, but it’s like trying to hang onto tendrils of smoke. “I can’t put you through the same thing I went through. Not when I got the same thing he did. It’s too close, it’s too...”

“Everything is _different_ this time, though,” Paul says urgently, hands combing through Barney’s hair, like he can chase away the terror with his fingertips.

“Nothing’s different,” Barney objects. Him and Josh, they’re both, they’re both…

“No, baby, so so much is different,” Paul insists. “They have treatments now, that you can get. You have health insurance, and savings, and a home, and...I’m not saying Josh wouldn’t have died if he’d had those, but he would’ve...”

Paul pauses. Then, “Babe, if he’d died peacefully in hospice, with no pain, and a nurse there, and you holding his hand, would you have spent the rest of your life all torn up inside?”

Barney gasps a breath, digs his shaking hands into the front of Paul’s sweatshirt. He shakes his head. Paul’s...Paul’s right. It _would_ have been different.

“It wasn’t the fact that he died that screwed you up,” Paul points out, voice so soft and gentle. “It was the _way_ he died.”

Barney nods, then, because it’s the truth, it’s all right there. He hated Carson after that, lashed out at him, stole from him, because Carson had left Josh to die alone. And Barney hated himself for letting it happen. For not being there for Josh at the end, when Josh had been there for Barney since the beginning.

“If this...” And here — here — Paul’s voice breaks. “If this is gonna get you, if this is really how you’re meant to...I’m gonna do everything possible to make sure you’re safe, and comfortable, and...and loved when you go. That’s what’s gonna be different.”

Barney huffs out a sob. He’s so overwrought, he can’t, he can’t say anything except, “Paul!”

Paul draws back, just far enough to look at him and stroke a hand through his hair. He’s crying, tears staining his cheeks. “Yeah, baby?”

“I’m scared,” Barney confesses, and something inside him breaks open; for better or worse, he doesn’t know. He was falling. He’s hit the ground. He’s still alive. He doesn’t know where to go from here.

“Me, too,” Paul admits. He wipes his eyes with his sleeve and sniffs wetly. “Holy fuck, me too. But you're not leaving over this. No way. You’re gonna come with me to the clinic so I can get tested, too, and whatever happens, we'll deal with it together. Alright?”

Barney leans forward again, resting his forehead on Paul’s shoulder, and breathes. He should leave. _He should leave_. He’ll only hurt Paul if he stays. He should pack up and go tonight.

But he’s not strong enough to do the right thing, not this time. He gives in. Paul’s asking him to stay, and he can’t refuse. Not anymore.

“Yeah, okay.”

*

Paul calls into work. He comes out of the bedroom, after a quiet conversation with his boss that probably gave away more than Barney wants anyone to know, and sits back down next to him on the couch. He pulls Barney into his side; Barney goes with it, until he’s laying down, his head in Paul’s lap. Paul combs his fingers through Barney’s hair, and they watch TV like that, quietly, for the rest of the evening.

At bedtime, Barney takes his first dose of Combivir. He stares at himself in the bathroom mirror afterward and wonders if he can do this.

*

Wednesday, March 4, 1998

*

Barney takes his new medicine every day, despite how awful the tablets taste, and how they get spongy in his mouth if he doesn’t swallow them down fast enough. For the first few days, they give him headaches and nausea — but that might be his nerves, convinced this is a pointless exercise in futility that can’t delay the inevitable.  

Eventually the side effects do lessen, and go away. The anxiety doesn’t.

He goes with Paul to the clinic for the blood test. Two weeks later, it comes back negative.

Relief hits him so hard, when Paul calls him at work with the news, that he has to close his office door and spend a few minutes sitting with his head between his knees. Remind himself that Paul’s okay. Paul’s okay. With everything that’s happened, with everything they’ve done, he didn’t give it to Paul. And now… now he’s going to make sure he never does. He’s got to get back _control_.

(He feels so alone. Like he’s lost at sea, with a storm rolling in.)

When he gets home that night, Paul’s in the bedroom, fully dressed but tucked up in bed with the phone receiver pressed to his ear. “Yeah, Mom,” he’s saying softly. “I know. I know. I will.”

Barney kicks off his shoes and lies down next to Paul, tucking an arm around his waist and laying his his head on Paul’s free shoulder.

“Barney just got home. Yeah, I will. No, I’ll tell him,” Paul says. He listens for a while. Barney can hear Nellie’s voice, but can’t make out what she’s saying, doesn’t try. “Yeah, he knows.”

Paul glances up at him and mouths, _You want to talk to her?_

Barney shakes his head. If he talks to Nellie — who told him he could feel free to call her “Mom” last time they spoke — he won’t be able to hold anything back. She doesn’t need to have to deal with that.

Paul lets out a long breath and leans back a little, so he’s propped up on Barney’s chest a little. “Yeah, Mom. Okay, I gotta go. I love you, too. I will. Bye.”

He pulls the phone away and sets it down on the receiver on the nightstand.

“Everything okay at home?” Barney asks, looping his arm more fully around Paul’s shoulders.

“They’re glad I’m okay,” Paul says. “Worried about you.”

“I’m fine,” Barney says. When did he start lying to Paul again? When did that become okay?

Paul rolls over to eyeball him. “Are you?”

“Are _you_?” Barney counters.

Sighing, Paul rests his head back on Barney’s chest. “I don’t think either of us is fine. But I hope we’re getting closer to it.”

“Me, too,” Barney says. He pulls Paul closer and runs a soothing hand across his back, feeling guilty for the worrying, the false alarm, everything. “Me, too.”

*

Friday, March 13, 1998

*

Barney leaves work early, picks up Paul from home, and together, they meet with a lawyer.

He’s taking the medicine every day. He’s gone through the booklets with Paul line by line. He’s been told — by Dr. Beth, by Paul, by the literature Paul brings home from the library every weekend — that his chances are good. That he’ll live into his sixties, at least. That a heart attack will probably get him before anything else does.

But the sense of doom lurking in the back of his mind makes him doubt them all, keeps him up at night, so he does what he can to prepare. Fills out paperwork granting Paul power of attorney. Makes out a will, so that Paul will get his retirement account and savings, so that Bailey will get his college account. As his only living relative, Clint, wherever he is, will get his life insurance payout.

Barney does what he can to make sure his family is taken care of if Dr. Beth is wrong, if the medicine doesn’t work, if something happens. He knows better than to hope for the best.

Paul goes along with it all. Says things like, “Do what you need to do, Barn,” and “I’ll be fine, but if this will make you feel better, okay.”

With every reassurance, he holds Barney’s hand, tightly, and doesn’t let go.

*

Saturday, April 4, 1998

*

“It’s a way I can show you that I love you,” Paul argues, and it makes Barney’s stomach churn with bile.

It’s after midnight. Paul had gotten home from work a few minutes ago, crawled into bed bare-ass naked, and started nibbling on Barney’s neck.

Barney…hadn’t reacted well. Had jumped out of bed and found himself in a corner, screaming at Paul, “What the fuck do you think you’re doing?”

The fight had devolved from there.

He doesn’t know what his viral load is right now. Doesn’t know how much danger he could put Paul in by touching him. Doesn’t want to risk it, even with condoms and lube and every other precaution under the sun. He can’t do it, never wants to wind up hurting Paul, even accidentally, through sex. Has sworn he never would.

“I know you love me,” Barney replies now, knee-deep into the fight and determined to win it. “You don’t, you don’t have to put yourself in danger because of me.”

“I’m not talking about fucking without protection,” Paul snaps. He pulls a t-shirt and a pair of boxers from the dresser and pulls them on in short, jerky movements as he continues, “I’m talking about hand jobs! Rubbing off on each other! Something that doesn’t have any risk, something good and fun and...and together! I _miss_ that!”

Barney’s stomach twists with fear, and rejection, and something else he can’t name. “If you need to, if you need to find somebody else to give you that—”

Paul stares at him aghast, effectively shutting him up, and then sits down on the corner of the bed, eyes bright. “I’m not looking for orgasms, I just want…”

“What?”

Paul looks away, then. Looks down at his hands, clasped tightly in his lap. “Used to be, we’d go to bed and _all_ of your focus was on me. Nowhere else. Like I was the only thing in the world that mattered, that _existed_. You haven’t looked at me like that in months, and I...I know it’s selfish, but I miss it.”

Barney scooches forward on the bed, so that he’s close enough to cover both of Paul’s hands with one of his. No matter what he does, it winds up being the wrong thing. “I don’t wanna...Paul, I can’t risk hurting you. I _can’t_.”

“I know, Barn,” Paul says. He doesn’t move. “But you can’t live your whole life hiding under the bedcovers, afraid to leave the house.”

“That’s not what this is,” Barney states, pulling away, heartbeat thudding in his ears and sweat gathering at his temples. Paul doesn’t understand, and maybe it was a mistake to stay together at all, to risk so much for so little gain, when so much is at stake.

“Isn’t it?”

Barney doesn’t have an answer to that. He’s already said what he has to say, and Paul _isn’t listening_. It doesn’t matter what the books or pamphlets say about transmission, about how safe protected sex can be. They could be wrong. And they wouldn’t know until it was too late, that he’d hurt someone with his dick just like…. And it would be permanent this time.

Paul rubs his face again, sighs. “Things have been tough lately. I know fooling around won’t fix any of it. But it might help us feel better for a few minutes. That’s all I was trying to do.”

The conversation ends there, but the tension doesn’t. They go to bed and fall asleep on their own sides of the mattress, instead of tangled up together in the middle.

*

Monday, April 6, 1998

*

A few nights later, Barney makes a quick stop on the way home from work. By the time he gets to the apartment, Paul’s already left for his shift at the bar (Barney used to join him there, most nights. He hasn’t lately, not for weeks). He eats dinner, does the dishes, and then reads until Paul gets home, a little after ten.

“Hey,” Paul says, shortly, and trudges straight through the living room to the bedroom without stopping to talk or hug or kiss.

Barney follows him, unsure, but convinced he needs to try to fix things. He thinks that Paul will meet him halfway. Which means he needs to be the one to start trying to cover that distance, to take the first step.

Paul’s stripping out of his bar clothes when Barney steps up behind him and trails light fingers down his back. He freezes, arms still caught in the sleeves of his t-shirt, and asks, “What are you doing?”

“I’ve been thinking about what you said,” Barney admits softly. “About how the distance between us has been hurting you. I don’t...I never wanted that, babe. So, I got an idea, something we could try, to fix it.”

“You don’t have to,” Paul says quickly, spinning around to face him. “I was a jerk to try to push you, I should have respected your boundaries, I just—”

Barney presses a finger to Paul’s lips, quieting him. This is something he can do to make Paul happy, to make up for what’s happening to them. “Do you trust me?”

Paul nods immediately, eyes wide.

“Then take off your clothes and lie down on your stomach.”

Paul hastens to comply, kicking his sneakers into the corner and pulling both his black jeans and boxers off together. He lies down, and Barney steps up to the side of the bed. He pulls the new bottle out of the drawer of the nightstand, opens the cap, and pours some of it into his hands.

“It’s massage oil,” he explains, suddenly uncertain. “I thought...I thought I could give you a massage, for a little while. If that’s okay.”

“That’s _more than_ okay,” Paul says. He’s already bouncing his toes in anticipation, so Barney starts there — takes the left foot in his hands and starts rubbing the oil into his skin.

Paul lets out a low groan, a sound he hasn’t made in — yes, months. Barney starts to think, to hope this might work. It can’t end in sex, but maybe it can give Paul what he really needs.

He works his way up Paul’s leg, from his individual toes, to the arch of his foot, to the tender spot behind his knee, and up to where the top of his thigh meets his hip. Then he switches legs and does it again.

Paul, slowly but surely, melts into a man-shaped puddle, all soft sighs and low groans. When Barney gets to the second hip, he can see the muscles of Paul’s ass clench in anticipation. So he picks up Paul’s hand, instead, and starts massaging each individual finger.

“Oooh, should’a known you’d do that,” Paul mumbles.

Barney shushes him. “I’m concentrating.”

After Paul’s arms, Barney does his neck, then shoulders, then lower back, then rear end. Paul’s hips are making that little jerking motion — the one where Paul’s trying desperately _not_ to hump the mattress like a teenager.

Barney kisses his ear and whispers, “Roll over for me.”

Paul flails an arm, awkward and loose-limbed, but eventually makes it all the way over onto his back. His cock juts out, hard and red and ready, and Barney resists the urge to swallow it down.

Instead, he pours some of the oil into Paul’s cupped palm and brings it to his erection, wrapping his hand around it and slicking it up. He commands, “I’m gonna keep massaging you, and you’re gonna jerk yourself off until you come.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Paul rasps, eyes glazed. He starts moving his hand up and down his shaft. Barney drizzles more oil into his own hands, and then starts in on Paul’s chest.

Within a few short minutes, Paul’s hand is pumping hard and fast, breath coming in and out in short gasps. Barney drags his fingers down his chest, catching both nipples at once, and Paul sucks in a breath and shoots all over his stomach and onto the backs of Barney’s hands..

Barney suddenly realizes that he’s warm, that he’s breathing fast, that he’s hard in his pants, and that for the first time in months, he _wants_ to come. He pulls his pants down roughly, sticks his slick hand in his boxers, and starts to bring himself off, kneeling there at the side of the bed.

Paul recovers enough to roll over onto his side and watch him, eyes hooded and satisfied.

“God, you’re so hot,” Paul says, voice low, and it brings even more heat to Barney’s body. “Feel like I could do it again right now, just from watching you touch yourself.”

Barney gasps and keeps working his hand, and listening to Paul talk dirty, until Paul says, “You’re close, I can tell by your face, god I love that look.”

Barney comes so hard he has to lean forward and brace his body against the mattress while his cock spurts and his vision whites out.

Paul pets his hair, and Barney lets out a single sob — suddenly, completely overwhelmed with emotions he’s been bottling for weeks, feelings he can’t name, they’re so tangled up. He’s been holding himself apart from everyone, and it’s so hard. So hard to keep up the ruse that he’s okay.

“Hey baby,” Paul says after a minute.

“Hey,” Barney replies. He pulls his messy hand out of his boxers and stands. “Lemme go clean up.”

He kicks out of his pants and shorts as he staggers to the bathroom. Turning the water on hot, he grabs the bar of soap, and begins washing his semen off his hands before it can get on Paul, before it can hurt Paul.

He doesn’t know how much time passes, just that Paul is suddenly by his side, pulling his hand out of the water and saying, “Okay, baby, that’s enough.”

Barney looks down. The sink is steaming. His hands a bright red — scalded. There’s soap lathered up to his elbows.

Paul turns the faucet to cold and eases Barney’s hands back under the stream. It hurts. Barney hisses, feeling like he’s woken up out of a trance.

“Yeah, I know, it’ll be better in a second,” Paul says soothingly. He soaks a hand towel in the cold water and wrings it out. Then he wraps it around Barney’s hands, shuts off the faucet, and ushers him back into the bedroom and under the covers. Barney goes along willingly.

“You alright?” Paul asks, after a few minutes of just...quietly holding him to his chest, spooned up behind him.

Barney presses his body closer. “Yeah. Sorry about that. Didn’t mean to ruin it.”

“That was great. It wasn’t ruined. It was...it was really great.” Paul pauses. Then, “It made me feel really...really loved. That’s what I was missing. Feeling...that.”

Barney tosses the damp towel into the hamper and rolls around in the bed to face Paul, still caught up in his embrace. “That’s why you were upset about the no sex?”

“I guess so, yeah.”

“This helped?” Barney asks.

“Yeah,” Paul says. He brings Barney’s hands up to his lips and kisses them softly, one after the other. “This helped.”

Four months ago, they were talking about how they could explore new things in bed while staying within Barney’s limits. Now, they’re working on just being able to touch each other again. Barney wonders whether they’ll be able to sustain it, to balance boundaries, risks and desires without tipping past the breaking point.

“Stop worrying, and go to sleep,” Paul mumbles, eyes falling shut again, because he always passes out after intense sex.

“Goodnight,” Barney whispers. He presses a light kiss to Paul’s lips, and then settles into his arms and closes his eyes. Paul is okay, and that’s what matters.

*

Friday, April 17, 1998

*

“Juan called again,” Paul says after their enchiladas have been brought out by the server. He’d come north and met Barney for lunch at a Mexican restaurant near the Coaster station. He’s been doing that a lot more, lately. (Sometimes Barney wonders if Paul is spending more time with him to save up for when Barney is gone — though he knows Paul wouldn’t see it like that. He’s been way more optimistic about the future than Barney has).

“I’ll call him back tonight,” Barney promises.

“That’s what you said the last two times he called,” Paul reminds him, and Barney almost winces. “Are you avoiding him? He react badly to the news?”

Barney _does_ wince this time. “No, I...I haven’t told him.”

“Still? What about Deb and Lida?”

“You’re…” He puts his fork down and picks up his water glass instead, to hide his face when he says, “You’re the only one I’ve told.”

“Barney....” Paul breathes, staring at him.

“I know.”

“He’s your best friend.”

Barney shakes his head. “You’re my best friend.”

“You need more friends than just me,” Paul says flatly. “Support systems are an important thing to have after the diagnosis, you know that. You want me to tell him for you?”

Barney bites back his instinctive response, which is to say no, that he’ll handle it himself. Thinks about it for a minute — about having to sit down again with someone else, someone Not Paul, and tell them this thing about himself, that’s hurting him.

He reminds himself that it’s not just someone. It’s Juan and Debbie and Lida. People who have been by his side for two years, drawn him out of his shell, and taken him to the Pride parade. They’ll understand. Out of everyone Barney’s known in his life, they’re guaranteed to understand the most.

The problem is...he doesn’t want to burden them. They’ll understand because they’ve been through this with other friends before. Friends who are gone, now. How can he put them through it again, hurt them one more time?

Barney sighs. He knows Paul won’t let it go, even knows that he’s right — that Barney needs more support than just Paul.

“That’s...if you’re okay with it…”

“Whatever you need, Barn,” Paul says softly.

“I’m not good with needing things,” Barney admits.

Paul snorts, and then laughs at himself. “You ever met someone who _was_?”

Barney shakes his head, then asks, “You’ll call Juan?”

“I’ll call him this afternoon,” Paul promises. “He’ll probably want to come over tonight while I’m at work. That okay?”

Barney takes a deep breath, picks up his fork, and digs back into his enchilada. “Yeah, that’s fine.”

When he gets home at six, Juan, Debbie and Lida are camped out in his living room. There’s a large cardboard cake box on the coffee table.

“What’s this?” he asks, after Debbie finishes hugging the hell out of him and presses a wet kiss to his cheek.

“Paul told us how upset you’ve been since the diagnosis, so we brought you a cake,” Debbie explains, sitting on the couch and pulling Barney down next to her.

“Lida picked out the message,” Juan says quickly.

Lida honest-to-god squawks. “I did not, this was all you!”

“Oh god, what is it?” Barney asks, because Juan’s judgment lends itself to things like car spoilers that could be seen from outer space. He lifts the lid of the box and looks down at a single layer sheet cake with white frosting. And, written out in perfect, bright red letters, _SORRY ABOUT YOUR HIV._

He puts the lid down and covers his face with his hands. “You...you forced the poor kid at the bakery to actually write that out?”

Juan defends himself admirably. “He said it’s not the worst thing he’s had to write by a long shot. I think he said that was...what was it?”

“ _Sorry my son tried to eat your turtle_ was a good one,” Lida offers.

“No! It was, _Congratulations! You’re not the father!_ ”

Barney huffs out a laugh, because he knows they expect it, that he needs to seem okay, even though he’s anything _but_. He shakes his head. “Alright. Alright. What flavor is this thing?”

Debbie hands him a plastic cutting knife and a stack of plates. “Marble, with buttercream frosting.”

“Your favorite!” Lida announces, bouncing in her seat excitedly.

“Alright,” Barney repeats, and steels himself for a night of support he doesn’t deserve. They’ll enjoy this memory after he’s gone. “Looks like I’m having HIV cake for dinner.”

The others burst into cheering applause. He starts doling out pieces, and cuts himself a large slice right out of the H. It tastes like ash in his mouth, and makes his stomach churn uneasily.

Later, they walk the half-demolished cake down to the bar to share with Paul and his coworkers. The other bar denizens fall upon it like people starved (for cake).

Barney serves Paul his slice, along with a brief kiss, and says, “Thank you.”

Paul looks at him shrewdly, like he can see through the happy facade, can hear the thunder crashing through his skull. He nods, though, and doesn’t say anything. Barney sighs in relief.

*

Friday, June 26, 1998

*

Paul goes with him to his first follow-up appointment with Dr. Beth, and holds his hand while they sit in uncomfortable plastic chairs in the exam room. “It’s going to be alright.”

“You know that?” Barney growls. He didn’t sleep last night, not a wink, and he’s taking it out on Paul like an asshole. “Is that what you know?”

Paul refuses to rise to the bait. They sit there in silence until the doctor walks in and greets them. “I see you brought a friend this time. I’m glad.”

“Not friend,” Barney corrects her, because he always makes a point to do so nowadays. “Boyfriend. Paul.”

“Nice to meet you, Paul,” Dr. Beth says.

“Same,” Paul replies quietly.

“So what’s the news, Doc? Am I gonna live?” Barney asks, and he tries to make it sound like a joke, like it’s a funny question to ask here in the city’s HIV/AIDS clinic. Neither Dr. Beth nor Paul buy it, not for one second.

Dr. Beth flips to a page on Barney’s chart and turns it around to show him. Her finger points to a specific line of numbers, and she explains, “This is your latest blood work. It shows that your viral load has been suppressed to under 50 copies per milliliter, which means you are officially undetectable.”

“Oh my god,” Paul says, voice high. He turns to Barney and hugs him, wrapping strong arms around his shoulders and squeezing tight. His breath hitches, and his face, tucked into Barney’s neck, is wet with tears.

Barney sits motionless. Something isn’t making sense. “I’m...I don’t understand.”

“You’re responding very well to the medication,” Dr. Beth explains, voice calm and assured like always. “Your immune system is recovering, and the virus itself is suppressed. At this point, you’re unlikely to spontaneously develop any AIDS type complications. You’re also unlikely to transmit the virus to your partner.”

Barney raises his arms, then, to clutch at Paul’s back. Unlikely. Not impossible. Still not safe. Dr. Beth gives them a minute, until Paul draws away and wipes his eyes.

“Sorry,” he says. “I’m just...really relieved.”

“Barney?” Dr. Beth asks. “Doing okay?”

He nods slowly.

He doesn’t believe her. She’s standing right there with his results — the results are right in front of him — and he still doesn’t fucking believe her.

What is wrong with him? Why can’t he just look at all the evidence in front of him, evidence that he’s okay, that he’s going to be okay, and believe it? What is it going to take to make the terror finally abate, to make the thunder roll on somewhere else, to make the pain in his chest ease out of his body and blow away in the breeze?

Whatever’s wrong with him, it isn’t the HIV. It’s just...him.

Oblivious, Dr. Beth asks, “Do you have any questions for me?”

Paul, as it turns out, has about fourteen. Barney lets him take the lead, asking about other risks, the long-term treatment plan, what kind of sex they can have and what they still need to be careful of. It seems to boil down to: Use condoms and lots of lube. Get regular STI tests if they have sexual contact with anyone else.

“That won’t be hard,” Paul says, happier than Barney’s seen him look in months. “Barney’s kind of it for me, you know?”

When they leave the clinic, Barney is still in a daze. He stares down at his copy of the lab report while Paul drives them home, looking at the numbers as if they may change at any moment.

It doesn’t feel like the sunrise of a new day. It feels like the calm before the storm.

*

Saturday, July 4, 1998

*

Another flight to Pittsburgh, another hug at the airport, another night spent in Paul’s old bedroom.

In the morning, Barney rounds the corner of Paul’s parents’ house, stepping into the front yard, but what he sees brings him up short: Paul, slouched on the front porch swing, his older sister Julie beside him with her arm around his shoulders. There are coffee mugs on the railing, steam wafting up gently.

Paul is leaning heavily into his sister’s side. From behind, Barney can see just how tense and upset he is.

He slows to a halt, ten feet away, just in time to hear Julie ask, “You getting enough sleep?”

Paul snorts. “Do I ever?”

“You can’t support him if you run yourself ragged,” Julie says warningly. “You know that.”

Paul shrugs, and his head falls further down onto his sister’s shoulder. “He needs me to be strong.”

Barney backs away quickly, retracing his steps toward the backyard. Paul and Julie deserve privacy, and he doesn’t want to be the one invading theirs. He’s done enough to hurt Paul lately.

*

He chews on what he heard all morning as he helps the Costas prepare for the family barbecue. He pulls extra chairs down out of the rafters of the garage. He sweeps the front walk. He takes out the trash. He stacks wood next to the fire pit. The physical work keeps him just occupied enough that he can’t dwell too hard on guilt — guilt for the worrying, the lack of sex, the piss-poor attitude that Paul’s had to put up with for the past few months.

Paul’s been so upbeat, so positive since the last appointment with Dr. Beth. Talking about the future, about trips and parties and holidays. Barney’s tried to follow along, to join in, but the world still seems grey and dismal. He’s taken to going on long walks in the evenings while Paul is on shift. Trying to work out this restless energy burning under his skin, making him irritable and snappish at random moments, no matter how he tries to control it.

Even if he isn’t doomed to die on Paul, he’s still making him miserable, and this is just more evidence. He’s no good to anybody. Virally suppressed or not, he’s no good for Paul.

He buries it down, but then it all comes right back when Nellie pulls him into the kitchen and sets him to slicing tomatoes for the hamburgers. When Paul steps up next to him at the counter with a serving dish and a head of lettuce. When Barney startles so hard, the knife slips and draws a cut across the side of his left index finger.

“Shit,” Barney swears, dropping the knife and grabbing for the roll of paper towels. “Shit, shit, shit!”

“Hey, what happened?” Paul asks, crowding in at Barney’s side, and he can’t... “You cut yourself? Let me see.”

“No,” Barney says, pulling his hand to his chest and covering it with the other one protectively. “No, I can get it, just, just get me some bleach.”

“Bleach? What for?”

Barney gestures to the counter with an elbow. “The knife and, and the cutting board, I got blood on the cutting board.”

“You don’t use bleach on a maple cutting board,” Nellie says, coming up on Barney’s other side, too close. She reaches for the board. “Soap and water will do.”

“No!” His voice is loud, too loud, and echoes in the small kitchen. He surges forward and blocks the counter with his body. “I’ll do it, nobody else, I...there’s blood on it, Paul. I don’t want anybody...I can clean it, nobody else has to...”

Paul’s hand lands lightly on his forearm. Barney pulls his gaze away from the drops of bright red against the faded wood and looks up at his boyfriend.

“That’s not how it spreads,” Paul says softly. “You know it’s not. Nobody here is in any kind of risk—”

Barney interrupts him right there. “You are.”

Paul’s shoulders slump, because this is the fifth or fifteenth or fiftieth time they’ve had this argument. Paul is tired of having it — to be honest, so is Barney — but that’s because Paul can’t _see_ , and just says, “ _Barney_. It’s not...you’re not...you gotta trust me to make my own decisions about the risks. Whatever risk there is, you’re _worth_ it, babe.”

Barney steps back, away from Paul and his sincere words, backs up until he hits the opposite countertop. He has to put space between them, because the things Paul is saying… “I’m not. Nothing is worth this, least of all me.”

There’s a sharp intake of breath from Nellie, but Paul just looks at him with that same look and says, “You’re worth everything.”

“Stop,” Barney says, stomach churning. The cut on his hand throbs. “Just, just stop. You don’t, you don’t mean that, you don’t know...”

“I read every flyer and pamphlet the doctor gave us, every book on HIV and AIDS and Combivir that the library could find for me. What don’t I know, Barn?” Paul reaches for his hand — his bleeding hand — and Barney takes another step away.

Words spill out, unthinkingly, untested, unable to be controlled anymore. Words he’s been bottling up for six months, for ten years, for his whole life. “You’re gonna get hurt! I’m gonna hurt you, it’s what I _do_ , I don’t mean to, but it happens anyway. It always happens, it’s like...”

Here, he looks down at his hand, at the blood seeping through the paper towel. Everything about him, even his blood, is dangerous. “It’s...with this, with everything, everything I do, it’s like I’m cursed, like I’m poison, but you don’t, why don’t you _get it_? Why don’t you _run away?_ ”

Paul doesn’t move, this time. He stands there, just out of reach, and says in a shaky voice, like he’s trying not to yell, “You’re not _poison_ , Barney, Jesus. I...I love you, okay? You’re worth it because I love you.”

“How _can_ you?” Barney demands. “Look at me, at what I done, how could you ever—”

“Because...because you’re Barney!” Paul shouts, and he’s upset now, and that’s another hurt to add to the list. “Because you’re dependable, and caring, and smart as hell, and you never say the word ‘love,’ but Jesus, Barn, you love with every bone in your body, and _I want that_. I want to keep that.”

Paul’s chest is heaving, and he visibly tries to rein himself in with his next words. “I could, I could tell you anything — my shitty grandparents, my shitty high school, anything I’ve ever done that I’m ashamed of — and you’d never for one second blame me for it. I don’t care if you hurt me. Because who you are, what you do, that makes it _worth it_.”

Barney stares, and Paul looks back at him, eyes deep and full of emotion. Paul says, “You’re not him, Barn.”

It’s like a lightning strike, the way his body jolts, the way his chest burns, all at the sound of those three words. _You’re not him._

That’s...that’s not what this is about. That’s not what any of this is about. Barney put that to rest a long time ago. It doesn’t...it doesn’t matter anymore. Why is Paul always bringing it up?

He sucks in a breath and looks around the room, quickly. He’s somehow backed himself into a corner of the kitchen. Nellie and Paul are standing in front of the opposite counter. Carlo is at the doorway, not looming, but paying attention to the proceedings and looking concerned.

For a moment, everyone holds their breath. They look at Barney like they’re waiting for an answer. Barney has nothing left to say that he hasn’t already shouted, sent echoing around the room. They won’t listen.

Nellie’s the one who breaks the silence. “There’s a first-aid kit in the upstairs bathroom. Let’s get you fixed up, Barney.”

Barney walks slowly to her side, and she leads him out of the kitchen. He glances back at Paul through the doorway in time to see Carlo pull him into a hug. That’s, that’s good. Paul needs — deserves — comfort.

Nellie sits Barney down on the bed in the master bedroom and disappears into the bath for a moment, reappearing within a few seconds with a white plastic box. She sets it down on the bed and opens it. The first thing she pulls out is a pair of rubber gloves, which she snaps on, before inspecting the cut on Barney’s finger.

“Oh, that’s not too bad at all,” she says, voice even and matter-of-fact, even though Barney just screamed at her youngest son. “Just needs Neosporin and a band-aid.”

The sting of the alcohol wipe jerks Barney out of his daze. “I’m sorry.”

“For threatening to use bleach on my maple cutting board?” she asks absently, focused on the task at hand. “You should be sorry.”

“No, for,” He pauses while Nellie applies the ointment, then presses the bandage around his finger. “I’m sorry for—”

“I know what you think you’re sorry for, dear,” Nellie says, cutting him off. She peels off the gloves and sits down next to him on the edge of the bed, close enough that her knee knocks into his. “But you don’t have to be.”

Barney shakes his head. “I don’t understand.”

Nellie reaches out and places a hand on Barney’s back, begins stroking up and down his spine soothingly. It makes his breath hitch; it’s been twenty years since he had a mom, someone who loved him unconditionally, who rubbed his back like this. His mom used to do it when he was scared, laying in bed worrying over Clint or what their dad was going to do next or what the kids at school had said about his clothes and his shoes. He doesn’t know what to do with the feelings that it brings up. He wipes his eyes.

“I’ve never seen someone make Paul happy the way that you do,” Nellie begins, keeping her hand in that steady rhythm. “He’s had boyfriends before, but you...you make him feel special, like no one else ever could.”

She lets out a small laugh. “And for a boy from a big family that’s always fighting over something or other? Feeling special is a big deal. You do that for him, Barney. You make him feel special, and loved, and happy.”

“Not lately,” Barney argues, because maybe that was true once, but not in the past six months.

“Yes, lately,” she corrects him. “Even you getting HIV, even you on your darkest day, you’re still making him happy by loving him.”

“I do love him,” he whispers, and tries not to let his eyes well up. He’s never said it to Paul, afraid — always, always so afraid — of using it to cause pain. “It’s why...I don’t want to hurt him, Nellie. He doesn’t deserve it.”

“You don’t either, sweetheart,” Nellie says, and Barney tenses up. The heaviness in her voice makes his heart stutter in his chest. She knows. Oh god, she knows.

He glances up at her face. “Paul told you?”

Her eyes are soft and warm. “He told me a little. I know what was done to you, to make you think you have to take on everyone else’s pain. You didn’t deserve that, either.”

The smell of dirty carpet hits him, suddenly. He closes his eyes and breathes through it, concentrating on Nellie’s hand on his back, the floral potpourri scent of the room. “It’s not about that,” he whispers. “I don’t know why he brought it up.”

“What is it about, then? Explain it to me,” Nellie says, hand still moving up and down Barney’s back comfortingly.

Barney searches for the right words for what he knows deep down to be the inevitable, universal truth. It’s like trying to explain sunlight, or gravity, or existence. “I always hurt the people I...love. And then they...I lose them. I just. I’m trying to protect Paul from that. Before he gets hurt.”

“Before _you_ get hurt,” Nellie says, as if she’s correcting him.

“What?”

Her voice is soft as she points out, “Losing people hurts you, too.”

Barney shakes his head, rejecting the thought before it can do any damage. “Doesn’t matter.”

“Why not?” she asks, searching his face. When he doesn’t — can’t — respond, she asks him again, “Why doesn’t it matter that you’re hurt?”

“Because it doesn’t!” he insists. It doesn’t. It never has. He doesn’t know why she keeps asking.

Nellie’s lips press into a thin line. “If it did matter, how would that change things?”

He shakes his head again, even as he thinks about the past few months: the things he’s thought about, and the things he’s done. Ever since the diagnosis, he’s railed against anything that might ever hurt Paul, panicked over how his illness will hurt Paul, how watching his slow decline and death will hurt Paul, beaten himself up for putting Paul at risk and not leaving him immediately, and felt completely, utterly undeserving of Paul’s love.

How _he, Barney_ , hurts hasn’t mattered — only Paul.

“I’d have to face it,” he realizes, and a glance at Nellie’s face confirms he’s on the right track. “I’d, I’d have to face what it means. For me. To...to have been hurt. Instead of projecting it on everyone else.”

 _On Paul_ , he doesn’t say. Nellie nods like she heard him anyway.

“I still don’t see what that’s got to do with, with…” He can’t say the word. Hasn’t ever been able to say the word. “With what happened to me. When I was twelve.”

“You don’t?”

He struggles to explain. Nellie’s face is open and accepting — and her hand is still making slow, soothing circles on his back — and if she’s going to be able to help Paul when this is all over then he needs to make sure she _understands_. “It’s, it’s not even… My parents were already gone, I was already looking after my brother all the time. It was...it was a thing that happened once, and then we ran away, and it never happened again. I don’t, I don’t see why it’s still an...an issue.”

“Did it scare you, when it happened? Did it hurt?” she asks gently.

He nods. More than anything ever had.

She continues, still in that same soft tone, “Did it matter to him that you were scared and hurt?”

A painful knot forms in the center of his chest and lodges itself in his throat. He can’t speak. He shakes his head.

“Could that have taught you to believe that your fear and pain don’t matter?”

Jesus Christ.

Jesus fucking Christ.

Nellie is just... looking at him. The way Paul looks at him sometimes. He swallows the knot down and chokes out, “Yeah. Yeah, that could...that makes sense.”

“What else did it teach you, Barney?” she asks.

He closes his eyes and thinks back to the fight in the kitchen over the cutting board. The things he’d said. Fears he’d thrown at Paul like they were universal truths, hoping to wake him up and drive him away. “It taught me...that, that I’m worthless. And that no one...could love me, ‘cause I don’t matter enough, I’m not enough, no matter how much I wanna...how hard I try to prove it.”

“What have you done, since then, to try to prove you’re worthy of love?” she asks, still so gentle even as she tears him apart.

He feels raw. Cut open and inspected and found lacking. He doesn’t want to talk anymore, wants to hide away in the bathroom with the door locked and the lights off. But Nellie’s hand keeps moving, pinning him in place with tenderness, and he finds he can’t shut her down. Not if...not if she can figure him out. Not if she can help him figure himself out. Figure out what he’s been doing so wrong all this time.

“I...I don’t know.”

Nellie...looks at him. He thinks it’s a _mom_ look. He doesn’t know how to interpret it. She asks, “What did you do with Clint, his whole life? What are you doing with Paul right now?”

“I wanted, I tried to protect them,” he says. “What’s...what’s wrong with that? That’s good.”

Nellie shakes her head. “What happens when you fail? And they get hurt anyway?”

Barney’s breath hitches, and his stomach turns. He knows exactly what happens. He looks down at his hands, sitting there uselessly in his lap, and admits, “It feels like the end of the world.”

His useless hands rise to scrub at his face tiredly, as images of Clint, of Jackie, of Robbie, of Paul, flash through his mind. “It’s like I deserve to be hurt, too. Like I’m not worthy of them, like I’m not worthy of anything—oh. Oh shit.”

The answer flashes bright in his mind, brighter than the Hillcrest sign, brighter than the neon lights of Paul’s bar. He stands up suddenly and paces to the door and back. His brain’s gone from spinning to so, so focused, and it’s like ants crawling underneath his skin. He feels stupid. He feels jittery. He feels like he’s just discovered the atom, the tenth planet, the secret of Atlantis.

Barney stops and looks down at Nellie, still seated on the bed a few feet away, and says, “I been...I’ve been obsessed with making plans and, and controlling everything, and protecting everybody, because it’s the basis....it’s the only way I can feel like I can be, that I feel like, like I deserve to be...loved.”

Nellie gives him a smile, small but proud. Because he’s figured it out. It’s the reason why he’s been so terrified for the past six months, why he’s been obsessing over what would be best for Paul instead of focusing on his own well-being. “And?”

He paces through two more laps to the door and back. “And...and I freak out when things go wrong or people get hurt because then I...it’s all my fault, and that means I don’t, don’t deserve any of it, after all.”

Nellie nods. “And?”

He stops. “And that’s twisted and stupid and not how the world actually works?”

He rubs his face with his hands again as all the bits and pieces cascade through his brain, forming a picture he can’t deny. For years, he’s been driven to be...to make the right choices, to do the right thing no matter how hard it is, to protect everyone around him. But sometimes, making the right choice has meant hurting people. He’d thought that was his fault, his failure. He’d thought it was _him._

Getting HIV was the trigger with Paul, that made all his fears ten times worse. But if it hadn’t been that, it would have been something else. Some other event that would have tipped his world on its end, made him think he’d destroyed his relationship, sent him on a panicked spiral, sent him running.

It’s happened before. God, it’s happened before. And it’s not his fault. It’s not his fault at all.

The realization makes him dizzy. It’s not his fault. It’s not... he’s not...

He sits back down on the bed, braces his elbows on his knees, and gasps for air. Nellie returns to rubbing his back.

Once he has his breath under control, he continues. “And I should...I should just let Paul love me and, and just accept it, and...and stop trying to prove I deserve it by being an overprotective jerk?”

And if he hurts Paul...if he hurts Paul...sometimes that happens. People hurt one another all the time, on accident and even on purpose. It doesn’t have to mean the world has ended. It doesn’t have to mean he’s poison. It is what it is. The only meaning it has is what meaning he gives to it. Nothing has to end.

“Now you’re getting it,” Nellie says. There’s laughter in her voice, and something else that might be pride. “Paul said you were a smart one.”

“I don’t feel that smart,” Barney admits. “Took seventeen years to figure it out.”

“What did you figure out?”

He raises his head again and looks at Nellie, meeting her eyes without shame. “It wasn’t...I didn’t deserve...none of it was my fault.”

He means the rape. He means the HIV. He means everything.

“No, it wasn’t,” she agrees.

He reaches for the next one. The next truth. “Paul...Paul loves me just because, because I’m me, and...I deserve it.”

“He does,” she says, and she’s smiling. “And you do.”

He huffs a breath. Tries one more. “I need to stop freaking out, because everything’s going to be okay.”

Nellie cracks a grin. “Plan on it.”

Barney snorts. “Paul tells you too much.”

“Oh, he so very much does,” she sighs. “He really, really does.”

She hands him a tissue box from...somewhere, and he wipes his face. Apparently he’s been crying throughout this entire conversation, and he didn’t realize. Apparently there’s a lot he hasn’t realized. He sniffs, crumples up the tissue, and says, “Thanks, Mom.”

Nellie kisses him on the temple, and finally drops her hand from his back. “You’re welcome, sweetheart. Now let’s go finish this up.”

*

Paul’s in the living room, sitting on the couch with his father, when they come back in. He stands when he sees Barney, opens his mouth to speak—

Barney crosses the room in four quick strides, takes Paul’s precious face in his hands, and kisses him.

They kiss, and then they pull apart slowly, just far enough to rest their foreheads together.

“I’m sorry,” Barney says, brushing tears off Paul’s cheeks with his thumbs. “I was so obsessed with protecting you, I didn’t see how I was hurting both of us.”

“I’ve been terrified for months that you’d decide to leave me for my own good,” Paul confesses, voice breaking. “Because you didn’t want to burden me.”

“I won’t...I won’t anymore,” Barney promises him. “I see it now. We’re in this together. Through thick and thin.”

“In sickness and in health?” Paul asks, and his voice is so hopeful, so painfully hopeful.

“In sickness and in health,” he agrees. “We’re gonna be okay.”

And then Barney says something he hasn’t said in months, maybe hasn’t even said in his whole entire life, but he’s going to work like hell to believe it from now on. “I’m going to be okay.”

*

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To reiterate - you cannot transmit HIV from bleeding on a cutting board. Furthermore, we now know that if you are on antiretrovirals and your viral load is "undetectable," you pretty much cannot pass it to someone else. This is why reducing stigma, getting people tested, and connecting people with treatment is so, so important. 
> 
> During the planning of this fic, I was enrolled in a graduate-level class on HIV and AIDS, which included interviews with HIV patients and visits to treatment/support organizations in the area. I also did extensive outside research. Any mistakes are unintended and wholly my own.
> 
> Here's a [quick tumblr post with info about the impact of HIV/AIDS on the LGBT community.](http://bit.ly/2qGBOoA)
> 
> Learn more about HIV/AIDS at [AIDS.gov](http://bit.ly/2suND1x) (you know... while the page is still up). The timeline page was especially helpful in the planning of this fic. 
> 
> To learn about the early history of the HIV/AIDS epidemic, watch [And The Band Played On](http://bit.ly/2qH5Ybj) (link to view for free on youtube), which was made in 1993 and features Ian McKellen, B.D. Wong, Richard Gere, Anjelica Houston, Alan Alda, Steve Martin, Lily Tomlin, Phil Collins, and at least 5 Leverage villains.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many thanks to [Kathar](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kathar/pseuds/Kathar), [shell](https://archiveofourown.org/users/shell/pseuds/shell), and [Laura Kaye](https://archiveofourown.org/users/laurakaye/pseuds/Laura%20Kaye) for the beta help!
> 
> Minor warnings for hospitals and some brief homophobia. In other news, you'll notice the rating has been bumped up. Bwahaha.

*

Sunday, July 5, 1998

*

They empty their suitcases, throwing dirty laundry into the hamper and toiletries back into the bathroom, and then stand in the center of the bedroom and just...look at each other.

The bed is right there. The bed is _right there_ , and if Barney were a braver man, he’d be push Paul toward it and let his hands and mouth roam free over Paul’s body, but...but. His emotions are still scrubbed raw from yesterday: his meltdown in the kitchen, the talk with Nellie, his own realizations, Paul’s reactions….

They had spent the entire rest of the day glued to each other’s sides, hanging back slightly from the rest of the party-goers. Squished tightly together on the back steps, eating their hamburgers and potato salad from paper plates. Standing arm-in-arm in the twilight while Cousin Andy and Paul’s brother Neil lit the bonfire (with only trivial injuries to show for it). Watching Nellie and Carlo distract and divert well-meaning relatives from asking them innocent-yet-obnoxious medical questions until it was late enough for them to head inside, away from the crowd and the party.

They had fallen into the guest bed, legs tangled and bodies pressed together, and they hadn’t said much, and they hadn’t done anything other than stare at each other until late into the night, after the fireworks had petered out and everyone else had driven or staggered home.

There in the dark, Barney had whispered, “I don’t know what to do next.”

Paul had squeezed him tightly and said, “We’ll figure it out together.”

Now, after a six-hour flight home, Barney stares at Paul and feels the helplessness come crawling back. He’s told Paul he’s in it now for the long haul. That he’s going to try to live his life without fear — or at least, without letting the fear consume him like it has been the past six months. But what the hell is the next step? What can he actually _do?_

Paul must see some of this on his face, because he smiles gently and says, “I’m going to run down to the store and get some milk and stuff.”

“You want company?” Barney asks, grateful for the reprieve.

“Nah,” Paul replies easily. “Why don’t you give the others a call and let them know we’re home? We can do dinner, or something.”

Barney nods. Paul kisses him like he always does, and leaves him alone in the apartment to think.

He calls Debbie first. Because Debbie is smart and in her fifties and can discern huge amounts of insight from the slightest shift in his tone, she immediately says, “You didn’t break up with Paul, but something happened while you were gone.”

Barney sighs into the phone receiver and rubs his face with his free hand. “I had a meltdown in front of Paul and his parents.”

“Oh no!”

“Yeah,” he says. “His mom set me straight, afterward, and I talked to Paul. Things are better now, I mean, I’m going to try to make them better, for him and for me.”

“The best thing you can do for Paul right now is to take better care of yourself,” Debbie says.

“I know,” Barney admits. “I know that, I just...I don’t know where to start. I’ve always been more worried about what everyone else needs. Or what I think they need. I’m not sure I know how to...flip that around.”

Debbie hmms at him. “Maybe you need to let other people support _you_ for a change.”

“Yeah.” He thinks for a moment. Support. Support is important. Support is… “Hey Deb? Do you know...are there any support groups around here for, for people with HIV?”

Debbie sounds proud when she replies, “There sure are. Give me a sec, let me find the right phone number.”

Later, Paul gets home with milk, eggs, and fresh chocolate chip cookies from Uncle Biff’s. They sit together on the couch to eat them — with tall glasses of milk included — and Barney says, “Debbie and Lida are coming over later with a pizza.”

“That’ll be good,” Paul says, wiping crumbs off of his lips. He’s got a small streak of chocolate in the corner of his mouth. Barney reaches out and gently wipes it away with his thumb, then brings it to his own mouth to taste. Paul’s eyes widen, and his mouth drops open, just a bit.

Barney darts forward to kiss him, lightly, then pulls away, even though it makes Paul let out a small whimper of disappointment. He meets Paul’s eyes and says, “Yesterday, talking helped. A lot. But I think I gotta...I gotta do some more of that before I…”

When he trails off, Paul reaches out to take his hand, linking their fingers together. “I told you before, I don’t care about the sex. I care about _you.”_

“Yeah, but now I kinda care about the sex,” Barney says, quirking an eyebrow and making Paul chuckle. “I don’t want to be afraid of it anymore. I wanna...I wanna work on that. On not being afraid.”

Paul smiles at him, a little more shrewdly this time, and asks, “So what’s your plan?”

Barney groans and head-butts his shoulder. “Shut up.”

Paul snorts, pushing him away, and Barney continues, “Debbie’s gonna get me into a support group. For people living with HIV.”

Paul’s mouth drops open again, this time in surprise. “Really?”

“Yeah,” Barney confirms, looking away, over at the bookshelf next to the TV stand, uncomfortable with the pride shining from Paul’s eyes. He shrugs. “I figure…I figure I can’t be the only person in the world who feels like this. And maybe some of them can, they can tell me how they…”

He looks back at Paul. “...how I can move forward. From this. From everything.”

Paul’s eyes soften, and he nods, squeezing Barney’s hand tighter. “I like this plan.”

“Good, ‘cause I’m pretty sure I’m going to hate it,” Barney says. “I’m gonna have to talk to people about it. People who aren’t you.”

“I don’t know, it might not be so bad to get different perspectives on things. You’ve been trapped inside your own head for a long time,” Paul points out. Then he asks, “You want me to go with you?”

Barney shakes his head. “I think this is something...I think I gotta do this by myself. But if you could...if you could be there, after, that would, that would be good.”

“I’ll be there,” Paul promises. He leans forward and kisses Barney softly. “I’ll always be there.”

*

Sunday, July 12, 1998

*

Paul walks him down Normal Street to the Lesbian and Gay Men’s Community Center, kisses him at the top of the front steps, and says, “I’ll be across the street at the coffee shop when you’re ready.”

“Okay,” Barney nods, hand on the door. “Okay.”

He takes a deep breath, and heads inside.

The room he’s directed to is a typical community center conference room, with a circle of padded folding chairs in the center and some folding tables pushed off to one side. The facilitator, a black man in his late thirties named Joe, gets everyone situated to his liking and then casually calls the meeting to order.

“We’ve got a new face in the group this week,” Joe says, and then gestures to where Barney is sitting amidst the circle. “Barney, you wanna tell us a little bit about yourself, and why you’re here?”

Barney tenses up — suddenly, unexpectedly — and Joe adds, “You can say as much or as little as you want. Or just wave, that works, too.”

Giving himself an internal shake, Barney skips the wave and says, “I’m, um. I’m Barney, and I guess...I got diagnosed with HIV in January, and it really freaked me out because I didn’t know anybody who had it and…”

He glances around the circle at the twelve or so faces staring back at him. They’re a mix of white and black and Latino, ranging in age from nineteen to late-fifties, and they’re all looking at him with sympathy, with understanding, with that bone-deep knowledge of exactly where he is right now.

“...who had it and didn’t die. So I guess I wanna...meet people in the same boat and find out what, what to do next. To not be afraid anymore.”

He runs out of words, at that, and looks up at Joe. Joe smiles, and says, “I hope we can help with that. Thank you for sharing, Barney. We’re gonna go around the room now and do introductions and updates, and then we’ll workshop some issues together. Marty, do you wanna go next?”

The man on Barney’s left starts to speak, and Barney settles in to listen.

*

Barney attends his group meeting every Sunday after that. Paul walks him there, waits for him at a nearby coffee shop with a book and a latte, and then walks him home.

Some days, they go to lunch afterward at one of the food stalls at the farmer’s market, or at the place that serves actual New York-style bagels, or the place that serves fresh Belgian waffles as big as your head.

Other days, they walk straight back to their apartment, and Barney spends the afternoon curled up on the couch under a blanket, his head on Paul’s lap as they watch Judge Judy.

Paul sets one rule, and one rule only: no hiding. No hiding in the bedroom, no hiding his feelings, no matter how dark and dismal they are. He doesn’t have to talk about them. Just admit that he’s having them.

It’s hard not to hide. It’s hard not to…try to protect Paul from his feelings. To not bury them deep down, but to bring them up, to analyze them the way he would a faulty financial spreadsheet, to come to understand them: what they are, how they came to be, and how to ease them.

For once in his life he’s focusing on himself. It’s hard not to feel selfish — especially the days when Paul has to step up and help carry the load. But as he goes to group, as he hears the stories from the people he’s gotten to know — the obstacles they’ve overcome, the battles they’re still fighting, the frustration they feel on so many different levels — he finds himself relaxing more and more.

He’s not being selfish. What he’s been fearing is normal. What he feels is okay. And no matter how badly he feels today, he’s probably going to feel better tomorrow.

The more he relaxes, and the more he works on his own issues, the brighter Paul’s smile grows.

He knows he’s doing this for himself, not for Paul, but he still can’t help but feel proud of himself as he watches the weight lift from Paul’s shoulders, too.

*

In August, Bailey’s photo graces the back page of the _Louisville-Courier_ newspaper.

He’s ten years old and posing with his bicycle, a green ten-speed. According to the headline, his hometown held a community outreach event on bicycle safety for kids. So Bailey is happily posing wearing a new bicycle helmet. He has Clint’s nose, Jackie’s eyes, and a smile that could light up the room.

Barney clips it out and adds it to the file folder holding Clint’s latest photograph, stored in the locked drawer of his desk. He wonders why he keeps the subscription to Bailey’s local paper, why he scans every edition for his name and picture. Part of it is habit. Part of it, though, is this last connection to his brother. He can’t contact Clint — he can’t, it’s been too long, there’s too much baggage in the way, SHIELD may not even allow it — so he follows Bailey’s life and pretends it’s enough to know that his nephew is happy, healthy, and safe.

In September, Juan takes him hiking at Mt. Laguna, saying, “You gotta get out of the city, man, get some air in your lungs.”

The scrubland is nothing like the emerald cornfields of Iowa, but after seven years, it’s starting to feel safer than the Midwest ever did. California is where he lives now. It’s where his community is. It’s where his recovery is happening. He’s starting to love the brown hills and the tiny purple flowers that bloom after every rain.

He thanks Juan for taking him. Juan blinks in surprise before saying, “Any time, man, just say the word.”

In November, Marco closes up the bar to host Thanksgiving dinner, and the assembled group still makes fun of Paul for the Cannoli Disaster of ‘93. The cannoli turn out correctly this time. Barney eats three.

In early December, Barney gets blood work done again, and has another appointment with Dr. Beth, where she smiles and says, “Still undetectable, and your CD4 count is up to 900. Good job.”

Paul grins at the news, and squeezes his hand, and Barney finally feels like he can smile back, like he can hear good news and believe it, bank on it, build his life upon it.

Later that month, they fly home to Pittsburgh. When they arrive at the house Nellie hugs Barney and says, “You’re looking better.”

“I feel better,” he admits, relaxing into the hug. It goes on for several long moments. “Thanks for getting me started.”

“I just gave you a push,” she says, rubbing circles on his back. “You’re the one who took the first step, and every step after that.”

She pulls away, then, and holds him at arm’s length, inspecting him. “And look how far you’ve come, already. Your shoulders aren’t warming your ears anymore.”

“I was that tense?” he asks.

Nellie shrugs and pats him on the cheek. “Come get something to eat.”

*

Wednesday, January 13, 1999

*

The sex thing has gotten out of hand.

Since Barney got the diagnosis nearly a year ago, they’ve fooled around once. Once, back in April, when Barney gave Paul a massage and they got themselves off, not even touching each other.

It felt good, and it helped, but...that was when Barney still felt like poison inside, and after scrubbing semen off his hand until his skin was raw, he couldn’t bring himself to try it again.

Paul hasn’t pushed. Paul hasn’t asked. Paul has been so, so understanding about Barney’s hang-ups. They kiss on the couch, and they sleep tangled up together every night, but they don’t touch each other. And in the mornings, they each spend an extra ten minutes alone in the shower to jerk off.

They do talk about that part. They laugh at themselves and each other. Barney asks, “How was it?” and Paul waggles his eyebrows and says, “Effective.”

Late at night, in the dark, Paul says, “Don’t worry about it. We’ll get there when we get there.”

Barney wants to get there. His viral load has been undetectable for seven months. There are things they can do safely. With condoms and lube, there’s hardly a limit to the things they can do safely. Dr. Beth has said it’s okay. There are guys in his support group with HIV-negative partners, and they’re okay.

Last weekend, Barney had spoken up at group. He’d said, “I don’t know that I’m afraid anymore that...that anything we do is guaranteed to give it to him. I think it’s more that it’s just...it’s been so long, it’s stopped being a thing we do anymore. I don’t...I don’t know how to get that back.”

“What does Paul say?” Joe had asked.

Barney had scrubbed his hand through his hair and sighed. “He doesn’t say anything. He’s just...waiting.”

“You think he’s just as nervous about it as you are?”

Barney had shrugged. “Maybe. Probably. It’s been a really long time.”

He wants to go there. He wants to reach out. He wants to tell Paul he isn’t afraid anymore. He just can’t find the words.

He chews on the conversation for three days after, thinking about risks and intimacy and fear. It takes three days, and that’s when he finally decides it’s time to reach out. That he’s brave enough to try.

On the way home from work, he stops at CVS and picks up a bottle of lube and a box of condoms. The ones in the nightstand are probably expired, and it feels nice to buy them brand new. A fresh box for a fresh start.

He also swings through the cookie shop for a dozen freshly-made chocolate chip cookies. Because why not.

It’s been cold out, so he makes spaghetti with meat sauce for dinner, with fresh garlic bread on the side. Paul gets home a few minutes after his shift ends at seven, and they eat together on the couch watching Dateline. Barney’s alarm goes off at eight, and he takes his meds like always.

“Tense?” Paul asks, as he stands to take both their empty plates back to the kitchen.

Barney hadn’t noticed, but yes, his shoulders apparently have gone rigid over the course of the evening. He sighs. “Yeah.”

“Take a shower?” Paul suggests. “Hot water might help you relax.”

A year ago, Paul would have offered to rub his neck, loosen the muscles and relax him just through touch. But a year ago, that type of thing usually led to sex. So Paul is holding back. Because of him.

For him.

He stands up from the couch and heads for the bathroom. As he brushes past Paul in the doorway to the hall, he lets his fingers trail up Paul’s arm, across his shoulders, and down the other arm. He hears Paul’s breath catch. Neither of them say anything.

Barney closes the bathroom door, turns on the water to warm up, and looks at himself in the mirror.

He’s going to be thirty years old this year. He’s gone to twenty-seven support group meetings. Taken nearly seven hundred doses of antiretroviral medication. And spent nearly a year terrified of his own body, of his own pleasure, and of giving pleasure to the man he loves.

He’s tired of waiting.

He steps into the shower and starts to prep himself.

A few minutes later, he turns the water off, towels himself dry, and steps out of the bathroom in nothing but his towel, determined to get things started. He looks in the living room, but Paul isn’t camped out on the couch anymore. Nor is he doing dishes in the kitchen.

When Barney walks into the bedroom, Paul is stretched out on the bedcovers, fully naked and completely hard. He’s gorgeous, and Barney has to grab hold of the door jamb to keep himself upright.

“Holy shit,” he rasps. “How did you—?”

Paul smirks, and trails his fingers up his cock, making Barney’s mouth water. He says, “I know what that look in your eye means.”

“Do you, now?” Barney asks, recovering himself a bit and taking a step forward.

“Yeah, I do,” Paul says. He strokes himself again, and his cock twitches at the light touch.

Barney takes another step closer. His breath is getting short, and the towel around his waist is getting tight. “What does it mean, then?”

“Mmmm,” Paul moans, letting his eyes flutter closed for a moment. Then he opens them, and his focused gaze freezes Barney in place, makes his heart start to beat in double time, makes his skin feel flushed and hypersensitive.

Barney stares back, just one step away from the bed, just within reach if he stretches out his hand to touch. He holds still. Repeat himself. “What does it mean, then?”

Paul’s eyes soften, and he says, voice so quiet, “Means you love me.”

Barney takes the leap — he falls on top of Paul, is caught in his arms, is kissing him for all he’s worth — and he’s soaring.

When they finally pause for breath, minutes or years later, Barney presses his forehead to Paul’s and says, “Hey.”

“Hey,” Paul replies, pulling Barney’s towel away and dropping it on the floor beside the bed. “How you doing?”

Barney rolls his hips, rubbing his erection against Paul’s abs, and says, “I’m good. You?”

“I’m good. I got a confession to make, though,” Paul says, breath hitching.

“Yeah?” Barney tilts his head, just a bit, to nibble on Paul’s ear, the side of his neck, the curve of his shoulder. “What’s your confession?”

“I found the box of cookies,” Paul admits. “And the box of condoms.”

Barney snorts, and knocks his forehead gently against the ball of Paul’s shoulder. “And here I thought you’d suddenly developed sexual mind-reading powers.”

Paul laughs lightly. “Sorry, babe. Gonna have to use your words, same as the rest of us.”

Barney draws back slowly, just far enough to see Paul’s face. “I want you.”

Paul draws a sharp breath. “Yeah. Yeah, same.”

“You happen to grab any of those condoms out of the box?”

With a smirk, Paul reaches under the pillow and pulls out a strand of six. “Think this’ll be enough?”

Barney laughs, pressing his head back down onto Paul’s shoulder. Paul takes the opportunity to grab a handful of his ass and squeeze, making him gasp between giggles. That sets Paul off laughing, even as he strokes down Barney’s backside and presses a gentle finger inside of him. Then it’s Paul’s turn to suck in a breath.

“What?” Barney asks, pulling himself together somewhat. “You told me to go relax in the shower, so that’s what I did.”

Paul leans up and kisses him, hard, and they both groan. He draws back, just a bit, still so close that their lips are touching when he asks, “How do you wanna do this?”

“You’re gonna put on a condom,” Barney says, still so close, “and slick yourself up real good, and then I’m gonna ride you. Sound good?”

“Sounds perfect,” Paul says. His hand leaves Barney’s ass, and soon there’s the sound of a condom wrapper tearing. “Budge up for a sec.”

Barney pulls away, dropping one last kiss to Paul’s lips as he does, and scoots backward so that he can rest for a moment on Paul’s upper thighs. He watches Paul jerk himself for a moment, then roll on the condom, pressing it firmly down to the base. He pulls the bottle of lube out from under the pillow and asks, “Do you wanna?”

“Yeah,” Barney says. He holds his hand out, and Paul squeezes the gel onto his palm. He wraps it around Paul’s cock, making him shudder and his cock grow even harder and… yeah. Yeah, he missed this.

He shuffles forward on his knees until he’s straddling Paul’s hips, and tries to sink down onto him. His aim is off, though, and Paul’s cock slips away, up against his balls instead of inside of him.

He tries again, and the same thing happens.

“Jesus Christ,” he grumbles, looking down and trying to figure himself out. “I thought this was supposed to be like riding a bike!”

“Hey,” Paul says, pulling Barney’s attention back up to his face. Paul smiles at him. “Relax, babe. It doesn’t have to be perfect.”

Barney huffs out a breath. “It’s been so long, I’m afraid I forgot...I was so scared we’d never get this back.”

Paul’s strong arms wrap around his shoulders and pull him down into a gentle kiss.

“I don’t wanna—” he protests, cutting the words off when Paul bites his lower lip and pulls it taut, letting it draw back slowly between his teeth.

“Kiss me,” Paul whispers, trailing his hands down Barney’s back, then stroking them soothingly up and down his thighs. “Stay right here, and kiss me.”

Barney does. He closes his eyes and loses himself in it, the press of Paul’s lips, the light brush of his tongue, the sharp rasp of his teeth. His skin tingles everywhere that Paul touches him, and he’s overwhelmed with feeling — they’re here, they’re here. It’s okay if they come too soon, or don’t come at all, it’s okay because they’ve finally started, and there will be a next time, and a time after that, and it will be better, all because they took that first step.

Paul shifts underneath him, realigning their bodies, and then one of his arms wraps around Barney’s back and holds him tightly against him. The other arm reaches down, behind him, and Paul’s hips rise and push, and there’s pressure, and oh— oh— oh—

Barney presses back, taking Paul all the way inside of him, until the curve of his ass meets the bones of Paul’s hips. Paul pulls back out, slowly lowering his hips, and then plants his feet against the mattress and pushes in again, faster this time. The third thrust is hard enough to shove Barney forward, and then suddenly something clicks — some physical memory snaps into place, the movements between them smooth out into a rolling rhythm, and they’re fucking as if they’d been doing it every single day for the past year.

“There it is,” Paul pants, sounding satisfied. When Barney dips his head to meet his eyes, he adds, “There you are.”

“Yeah,” Barney sighs, gazing back down at him, heart full. “Why did we stop doing this, again?”

“I don’t know, something about a deadly illness, I think,” Paul says, but he’s not upset, and neither, it seems, is Barney.

“That sounds like a stupid reason.”

“I’m sure it seemed logical to us, uh, at the time.” Paul pulls him back down by the shoulders, and keeps thrusting up into him as the angle changes, gets even better. “Yes, that’s it. C’mere, mmm, I need more kisses.”

Barney kisses him, and rides him, and stays on the edge for so long that he forgets it’s been a year since they’ve done this, forgets why. All he can see and feel and remember is Paul.

He doesn’t know how long it’s been since they started when Paul asks, “Can we...can we roll over, babe?”

“Yeah, yeah, let’s—” is all he manages to respond, and then Paul is pulling his hips in tight, pressing in deep, and rolling them across the bed, the sheets tangling up in their feet. Barney winds up on his back, legs pushed over Paul’s shoulders, Paul still hard inside him.

“This okay?” Paul asks, biting his lip and looking worried all of a sudden. The hell does he have to worry about. “Tell me what you want, baby.”

Barney isn’t flexible enough to pull Paul down to kiss him. Instead, he reaches up to cup Paul’s jaw in his hand, to brush his thumb across his lips and then press it into his mouth.

Paul takes it, sucks on it hard, laves it with his tongue, and then bites down. It shoots a spark straight down Barney’s body to his balls.

“I want you to fuck me like you wanna drive a hole in the mattress,” Barney says roughly, clenching tight around Paul’s cock. “I want you to fuck me like you’re tryna’ break the bed.”

“Yesss,” Paul groans, _loud,_ and tucks his head down and drives into him like he owns him, like he wants to imprint himself into every cell in Barney’s body.

Every thrust makes bursts of light flash behind Barney’s eyelids, makes his legs jerk and his toes curl from pleasure. It goes on and on and then it suddenly stops with a final, fierce slam home, and when he opens his eyes — when did he close them? — he sees that Paul is coming, his face wrecked and his red mouth wide open and gasping.

Paul holds himself there, sweat dripping down from his hairline, beading down at the jut of his chin, splashing onto Barney’s chest below him. He sucks in deep breaths, and as he finally gets enough air in his lungs, he turns his head to kiss the inside of Barney’s thigh and moans, “I love you.”

Barney smiles. “Yeah, you do.”

Paul reaches between them, holding the condom steady as he pulls out of Barney’s body. He eases Barney’s legs down to lay flat against the mattress, then throws the condom in the bin. Turning back, he eyes him shrewdly and then says, “Gimme another condom.”

Barney’s hands jerk, and then he’s scrambling under the pillow for the rest of the strip and handing the whole thing over to Paul. Who takes his time tearing off a new condom, carefully ripping the packet open, and slowly pulling out the rolled latex.

“Ohmygod, come _on_ ,” Barney urges, because he _needs to come sometime this century_.

Paul smirks. Finally, _finally_ , he rolls the condom down Barney’s cock and immediately follows it with his mouth.

Barney’s legs spasm, and he wants to push deeper, but Paul’s leaning all his weight on Barney’s hips, not letting him move at all. He sucks, and strokes with his tongue, and takes him in deep, and that’s all Barney needs, that’s all he needs because he’s coming, his vision whiting out and every muscle clenching and relaxing, he’s been fucking for hours and here’s the payoff, here’s the release, oh god, here’s his body _doing something good_.

There’s a hand on his arm. It’s Paul. Paul is touching his arm. His forearm is pressed across his face. It’s covering his eyes. Paul is pulling his arm away. Paul is murmuring, “Hey, baby, hey. Hey, it’s okay.”

Paul’s fingers are on his cheeks. They’re wiping under his eyes. He blinks his eyes open. His eyes are wet. His eyes are wet, because he’s crying. He gasps in a breath, and then another, and a couple more, until he can breathe easily again.

“I’m okay,” he whispers, coming back to himself slowly. He rolls onto his side to look at Paul, stretched out next to him, naked and covered in love bites and so beautiful. With more confidence this time, he says, “I’m okay. It was, it was just real intense.”

“You freaking out about virus transmission?” Paul asks, shifting to tangle their legs together.

Barney considers the question. He doesn’t think that’s it. “I think I just...I been mad at my body for a year, for making me sick and, and scared. I think, I think I forgot it could make me happy, too.”

Paul reaches over, and strokes his fingers through Barney’s hair. “I’m glad.”

“Me, too,” he says, and then he starts to grin. “You helped, too, by the way. Seducing me right out of the shower.”

Paul grins back. “You’re the one who brought condoms and lube home and left them in the bag with the fresh cookies. What was I supposed to do?”

“Me.”

“Yeah, obviously that.” Paul rolls his eyes and curls his body in closer. “D’you wanna eat the cookies now?”

“They’re all the way in the kitchen,” Barney complains. “And I’m comfortable.”

Paul snorts, and then laughs, and buries his face in the pillow. His voice comes out muffled when he says, “Look on the nightstand, Barn.”

Barney turns his head, and finally sees the cookie box sitting there between the alarm clock and the lamp. “Oh.”

“ _Oh,_ he says,” Paul comments, still chuckling into the pillow. “I love you, you _fucking turd._ Gimme a cookie.”

They pull themselves partially upright, enough to sit up against the headboard, and set the box of cookies between them. Barney’s reaching for a third cookie when he gets up the nerve to ask, “Does it bother you? That I don’t say it back?”

Paul looks at him, mouth full of cookie, and holds up one finger in a wait-a-second gesture. He chews and swallows without breaking eye contact with him, and then says, “You brought me cookies from Uncle Biff’s. Why would I need you to say the words?”

He breaks off a small piece of cookie and waves it in front of Barney’s face until he opens his mouth, and then the piece is dropped inside. “Eat your sex cookie, babe.”

Barney shakes his head, and doesn’t say anything more.

They brush their teeth, go through their nighttime routine, and go to bed wrapped up in each other’s arms, same as every other night.

Before Barney drifts off, he presses a kiss to Paul’s shoulder and whispers the words he still can’t bring himself to say out loud. He trusts that Paul knows, anyway.

*

Thursday, January 14, 1999

*

After all of four hours of sleep, Barney wakes up the next morning with more energy than he’s had in months. He sails through his morning routine, kisses a sleeping Paul goodbye, and drives through the rush hour traffic with the radio on.

He gets to the office, and his coworker, Jamie, takes one look at him and says, “Oh thank god, finally!”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he says breezily. He takes his coffee into his office and starts reading the paper.

Under his desk, his foot taps along to the upbeat song stuck in his head, and he doesn’t mind at all.

*

Saturday, October 2, 1999

*

When California Assembly Bill 26 passes the legislature, Barney doesn’t notice at first. He’s working on digging through two possible corporate espionage situations and a half-dozen low-level “We’ve got them nailed to the wall, we just need to show our work for the Federal judge” cases. With his minimal spare time, he barely has a chance to make it all the way through the _Louisville-Courier_ , much less the _San Diego Union-Tribune_.

It’s not until the bill has passed and the _fait_ is _accompli_ that he realizes California just created a domestic partnership registry for same-sex couples.

He skims the news article, ignoring the pull-quotes from disgruntled state officials and celebrity chatterboxes, until he reaches the part explaining what it all entails — which, it turns out, isn’t much. There are no tax benefits. No possibility of federal recognition. Nothing about wills, estates, next-of-kin, or survivor benefits. Nothing about health care decisions.

But it does offer one thing. One thing that they could use. One thing they might need.

Paul had promised him. Promised that if Barney got sick, if the treatment didn’t work, if the virus came after him the way it came after Josh, then Paul would be there in the end to hold his hand.

If Barney gets sick tomorrow, the hospital can bar Paul from visiting him. To them, he’s not family. But Barney’s only blood family is Clint, and Clint doesn’t know where he is, doesn’t know his HIV status, and might never want to see Barney’s face again.

Right now, for all intents and purposes, Paul is the only family Barney really has, and with this...this could help keep them a little bit safer.

(It means more than that. It means things that Barney feels, has felt for months, for years...it means saying them out loud. Telling the world that he wants commitment, permanence, with Paul. That the progress they’ve made since his breakdown at the Costa family barbecue has been progress on a very clear, intentional path.

(It means admitting, to Paul and to himself, that he’s _not_ going to run.)

The bill doesn’t go into effect until January. Barney has time to think and to plan.

*

Friday, December 24, 1999

*

Christmas in Pittsburgh goes a little differently this year.

At around three in the afternoon, when Paul’s parents have just picked them up from the airport and are on the way back to the house, Carlo’s cell phone rings.

“When did you get a cell phone?” Paul asks, flummoxed.

Nellie shushes him, even as Carlo says, “What? When? Is she alright? Vinnie, calm down. Yes, we’re in the car, we’re just coming back from the airport with Paul and Barney. We’re on our way. We’ll be there in twenty minutes. Sit tight.”

“What’s wrong?” Nellie asks, when Carlo hands her the phone and abruptly switches lanes.

“Andrea slipped on her front steps,” Carlo explains. “Ambulance is taking her to the ER.”

“Goodness, is she alright?”

“Don’t know, Vinnie was too upset to explain, I said we’d meet him there and figure it out.” Carlo adds, “Sorry, boys, I know you’ve had a long flight. We’ll figure out what’s going on and then get you home.”

“It’s okay,” Paul says. “It’s Aunt Andi. I’d rather know what’s going on than be stuck at home wondering if she broke a hip or something.”

“Broke a hip?” Carlo says. “She’s fifty-five, Paul, not eighty.”

Nellie interrupts, “Let’s not go borrowing trouble until we know what’s going on. Andrea’s tough. We should probably be more worried for the hospital staff if she doesn’t like the color of the room they put her in.”

“God, she’ll have them painting the walls salmon before they even know what they’re doing,” Paul laughs.

So far, Barney’s had three Christmas Eve dinners at Carlo’s younger sister’s house. He can believe it.

*

They walk into the waiting room, and the smell — antiseptic, cafeteria food, and something else, something unique to hospitals everywhere — overwhelms Barney’s senses, bringing him suddenly back to the summer of 1998. Waiting for Bailey to be born, only to lose him to the state a day later. Finding Clint, and then leaving him in the hospital in Cleveland. Kicking the shit out of a cupboard in the old camper because doing the right thing _hurt so much_.

He grabs Paul’s hand and squeezes, trying to ground himself in the here and now. Nobody is leaving anyone alone this time.

Barney takes a breath and glances around. They’re the second ones to arrive at the ER waiting room. Andrea’s son Vinnie is there, twenty-four and exuding quiet panic. He leaps up from his seat and starts babbling as Carlo wraps him in a hug. “I’m sorry, I didn’t know what to do, I called everyone, they said she’s getting X-rays and I couldn’t go in to see her, I didn’t even, I wasn’t even at home when it happened, the ambulance came and got her and my neighbor Mrs. Szumowski said that she hit her head, that she wasn’t talking right—”

“Okay, I get the picture,” Carlo says, gently cutting off Vinnie’s anxious stream of words. ”Let’s go talk to the nurse and see what’s going on, okay?”

He hustles Vinnie over to the reception desk, arm still around his shoulder. Barney, Paul and Nellie find seats, and wait for news. Barney waits, and tries not to go back to eleven years ago, when his life was different but his family was all in one piece. This is where he is now. These people are his family now.

Why does he keep focusing on what he’s lost?

A half-hour later, Barney doesn’t think anything of the elderly couple who steps into the waiting room, trailed by a middle-aged man. The three of them blow past Carlo as if he isn’t even there, and then descend upon Vinnie, standing over by the reception desk being as unobtrusive as he can while flagrantly eavesdropping.

Carlo stands from his chair, but doesn’t step forward. Nellie follows, as do Paul and Barney, and they watch as the new trio greet Vinnie.

“Vincenzo!” the man calls out, clasping Vinnie on the shoulders. A muscle in Vinnie’s cheek twitches, and he glances over at Carlo and Nellie guiltily.

“Hi, Grandpa,” Vinnie replies, giving into three cursory hugs and a kiss on the cheek. “Hi, Grandma. Hi, Uncle Gio.”

“What’s going on? How is your mother?” asks Mr. Costa. Who has barely spoken to his eldest son, Carlo, in nearly forty years, Barney remembers Paul saying.

Standing next to him, Paul is gripping Barney’s hand tightly and pressing his lips together in a thin line. Nellie is making the same exact face on the other side of him.

“She slipped on the front steps. The neighbors said she hit her head,” Vinnie explains. “We’re waiting to hear from the doctors.”

“You sit down then, I’ll ask them for an update,” Mr. Costa says, patting Vinnie on the arm.

Vinnie’s eyes glance over to Carlo again, obviously uncomfortable. “Uncle Carlo just spoke with them five minutes ago, Grandpa. They don’t have anything new to say.”

As Mrs. Costa murmurs something quietly to Vinnie, gesturing him into a chair, Mr. Costa finally turns to look at Carlo and, by extension, Nellie, Paul and Barney.

“I’m sure he did,” he says, eyeing Carlo.

Barney realizes he’d clocked them all the second he’d walked in, and that it’d been a deliberate snub on his part not to engage them. Barney really doesn’t like that look — not the way Mr. Costa looks at his son, and not the change that it evokes in Carlo; he’s suddenly more defensive, more vulnerable, than Barney’s ever seen him. He’s hiding it well, with decades’ worth of practice, and that just pissed Barney off even more. Family shouldn’t treat each other that way.

Barney shifts his weight, and then casually steps two paces to the left like he’s trying to get a better view of the TV in the corner, unobtrusively putting his body between the two men and breaking the stare-down. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Paul twitch in surprise.

Just then, a nurse comes out of the doors at the back of the waiting area. “Vincent Costa?” she asks.

Vinnie spins around. “That’s me.”

The rest of the family crowds closer, and they all hear the nurse say, “We’re finished with the exam. While your mother did get a knock on the head, we’re not seeing any signs of a concussion, and it looks like she isn’t in any danger.”

The tense atmosphere in the room lifts, and Vinnie’s shoulders visibly drop in relief. The nurse continues, “We’re just waiting on the x-rays to get back, and then we can let you in to see her.”

“Okay, okay, thank you,” Vinnie says, and the nurse nods at him and leaves, back through the doors she came through. Vinnie sits down heavily in the nearest chair.

“What was she doing out on the front steps, anyway?” Mr. Costa asks, stepping up close to Vinnie so that his little five-foot six-inch body can loom over him.

Vinnie lifts his hands in a shrug. “I don’t know, Grandpa. I wasn’t there.”

“What was so important you left your poor mother alone on Christmas Eve?”

“I had to work,” Vinnie insists. “I told her I’d clear the snow off the steps when I got home. It’s not my fault she didn’t listen.”

Mr. Costa leans forward. “Your mother does so much for you, Vincenzo, the least you could do is—”

“Leave the poor kid alone, Dad. What happened is nobody’s fault.” Carlo’s voice is tired, but it’s loud enough to cut off the rant and shift the focus off a grateful-looking Vinnie. “Andrea will be fine.”

Mr. Costa huffs disdainfully. He eyes Carlo again, then shifts his gaze over to Paul, who’s been holding himself tight and silent the last few minutes. Barney isn’t sure Paul and his grandfather have ever been in a room together before, and he can see the pain of that emanating out of Paul’s very being.

Mr. Costa looks Paul up and down and asks, “Which one is this, then?”

“You know that’s Paul, Dad,” Carlo says tiredly. Nellie has snuck in close to him, and the movement of her shoulder suggests she’s rubbing circles on her husband’s back underneath his winter coat.

“The one that moved to California and turned homosexual,” Mr. Costa observes, with just enough curl in his lip to show his disdain.

“I was homosexual in Pittsburgh, too,” Paul responds hotly.

Behind them, Carlo sighs, “Not the time, Paul.”

Paul turns his back on his grandfather and goes to stand next to Nellie and Carlo with his arms crossed. There’s a quiet moment, like maybe the conversation is over. Barney watches as Carlo and Nellie turn to speak quietly to Paul, Nellie’s free hand resting on Paul’s arm.

Mr. Costa surveys the room again, taking in Paul and his parents, the other uncle and Mrs. Costa sitting on either side of Vinnie, and then Barney, standing alone in the middle.

When Barney was nineteen, he stared down Trickshot with a loaded gun in his face and his brother’s blood sprayed across his skin. He’s thirty now, and an old man with grey hair and arthritic fingers isn’t intimidating in the least. Mr. Costa looks at him with venom, and Barney just smiles.

“Who’re you, then?” Mr. Costa asks. “The taxi driver?”

“I’m Paul’s boyfriend,” Barney replies evenly. He doesn’t feel the need to give his name.

“You the one with AIDS?”

Barney hears Paul and Nellie gasp behind him. In his peripheral vision, he sees Carlo’s head whip around and laser in on his father, all trace of regret and disappointment erased, replaced with protectiveness and fury.

An argument is about five seconds from breaking out...in the ER waiting room...on Christmas Eve...when everyone is worried about Andrea, and tired, and stressed.

“No, I’m not sick right now,” Barney replies, not rising to the bait, but instead turning on that trustworthy, pleasant voice he’s used to explain to seven different federal grand juries how very, very fraudulent the defendant’s bookkeeping was.

Carlo appears suddenly at his side. Without giving him a chance to get a word out, Barney turns to him and asks, “Dad, could you find where they keep the coffee around here? Paul and I have been up since four, and I could use the pick-me-up.”

Carlo meets his eyes for a second, assessing, and Barney looks back at him evenly, thinking, _Let me do this, let me help._ After a moment, Carlo nods and steps warily away, then heads down the hallway into the hospital proper.

Barney turns back to Mr. Costa. “Did you want some coffee, too? It’s cold out there, we could probably all use a hot drink.”

He turns his head, catching Paul’s eye. “Hey Paul, could you run after your dad and give him an extra set of hands? We’re gonna need, like, eight coffees. Do you take cream in yours?”

He directs the last bit back to Mr. Costa, who shakes his head and says, “One sugar for each of us.”

Barney glances over to the so-far silent Mrs. Costa and adds, “Okay, eight coffees and a bunch of sugars.”

Shooting Barney a look that promises a hell of a conversation later, Paul sighs harshly and follows his father down the hall.

By the time they return with two cardboard trays filled with hot coffee from the hospital cafeteria, Barney has managed to situate the elder Costas by the doors to the back, gotten Nellie and Vinnie brainstorming how they might still pull off Christmas Eve dinner, and engaged the uncle — Carlo’s younger brother, Giovanni — in a discussion over the Titans’ chances of making it to the Super Bowl this year.

The conversation breaks off when Paul hands them their coffees, and Paul whispers incredulously, “How did you _do_ that? Everyone was freaking out!”

“Of the terrible experiences I have had in hospitals,” Barney murmurs back, thinking of Bailey and Clint and fuckin’ CMC Mitchell, “this does not even break the top five. Relax. I got this.”

“You were right, though,” Barney adds a minute later. He thinks back to the few things Paul has said about his grandparents, and the way they treated Carlo when we wanted to marry Nellie, the way they put their religion ahead of their son. “They really are awful people.”

“Told you,” Paul mutters. He sips his coffee and looks anywhere but the corner by the back doors. “I think you prevented a murder back there.”

“Well, I _am_ a trained federal agent,” Barney replies, smiling behind his coffee cup.

He’s seen Charlene, and Jamie, and the other members of his team confront and interrogate the guys whose books Barney scours for misbehavior. It’s easy to talk down tense personalities when you don’t have a personal stake in the conflict. And it’s easy to let weak insults roll off your back when you’ve heard (and survived) far worse indignities.

Eventually, Aunt Andi is allowed visitors. Barney nudges Vinnie and says, “Let your grandparents go in first.”

Vinnie nods, and the elder Costas go in. The atmosphere in the waiting room warms up considerably, even though Giovanni is still there and ignoring everyone but Vinnie.

Eventually, Mr. and Mrs. Costa come back out, fuss over Vinnie like they should have been doing two hours ago, and then leave.

Vinnie and Giovanni go in next. Then the latter comes back out, approaches the rest of them quietly, and says, “She wants to talk to you, Nell.”

Nellie steps quickly through the doors. Giovanni explains, “She’s giving instructions on Christmas dinner. Very detailed instructions. While on morphine.”

Carlo winces, and Paul says excitedly, “Oh god, Aunt Andi is _stoned._ ”

“Completely stoned,” Giovanni agrees, a small smile making its way onto his face.

Barney remembers that Giovanni was only twelve when Carlo was disowned from the family for marrying Nellie. He wonders what the elder Costas said, how they kept the brothers apart for so long, whether they’ve spoken much at all as adults. Whether they’ll ever be able to get over what happened so far in the past. Whether they’ll ever be able to move forward together.

Barney realizes there’s a parallel here: him and Clint, versus Carlo and Giovanni. He knows better than to read much into it, to get invested, but...it’s there all the same. He can’t help but think about it. He can’t help but wonder.

The four of them stand there somewhat awkwardly, watching the TV in the corner and waiting. Eventually, Nellie and Vinnie come back out, smothering grins and trying to act like a stoned Andrea isn’t the best thing they’ve seen in months. “She’s fine. We’ve been told to have dinner on the table by the time she’s released. There’s no stopping her.”

“When are they letting her go?” Carlo asks.

“By nine,” Nellie says. “Which means we have a lot of work to do. Come on, boys, we’ll take Vinnie’s car and get started.”

“I’m on transport duty for the reprobate, then?” Carlo asks.

“Would you rather peel potatoes, dear?” Nellie asks sweetly.

“Can’t,” Carlo says, lightness finally easing back into his tone. “I’m on reprobate transport duty.”

Barney glances from Carlo over to Giovanni, who doesn’t seem to be going anywhere anytime soon. “You mind if I stick around here?” Barney asks, unwilling to leave Carlo alone without backup.

Carlo and Nellie looks surprised at that, but Paul doesn’t. He smiles, gives Barney a quick peck on the cheek, and says, “Go right ahead. C’mon, Mom, let’s go get started so Andi doesn’t kill us.”

“We’ll be at Andi’s, call us if you’re going to be later than nine,” Nellie says. She lays a kiss on every cheek — including Giovanni’s, and it makes him look a little bit gobsmacked — and then she, Paul, and Vinnie are out the door.

Barney is left in the waiting room with two brothers who haven’t spoken a civil word to each other since the Johnson administration.

They end up scattered across the seats, Giovanni and Carlo with three empty chairs between them, Barney across from them on the opposite bench. On the TV in the corner, the news shows a heartwarming story about a charity providing winter coats to children in need. Then it switches to report on a World Health Organization announcement that 33 million people were living with HIV worldwide, and that 14 million have died of AIDS.

Barney’s stomach tightens as the report goes on, and he doesn’t look directly at either Costa.

Sighing, Carlo turns his back on the TV, which inadvertently makes him face his brother. Giovanni looks over at him. After a short staring contest, Carlo breaks the awkward silence with, “Steelers had a rotten season this year.”

Giovanni snorts. “‘Course they did, idiot like that coaching them.”

That starts off a conversation about the many ill qualities of the current local football coach. Barney leans back in his chair and watches them talk. The conversation slowly winds its way from stilted, to easy, to, at times, even passionate (at least regarding Super Bowl XIV). Barney doesn’t care much for football, soured by his father’s obsession with Green Bay and Trickshot’s love for the Bears. But he’s glad it gives Carlo and Gio something to talk about, something safe to say, a reason to agree with each other. It’s a start, maybe.

The orderly finally brings Andi out at half past eight, and while the morphine has worn off, the Vicodin has kicked in. With a splint on her wrist, and an appointment to come back for a cast on Monday, she embraces both of her brothers at once, kisses their cheeks, and says, “Let’s go have dinner. If Nellie makes my recipes better than I do, I’ll kill her.”

When they part in the parking lot, Carlo and Giovanni don’t hug. But they do shake hands. Barney figures that’s something. It’s better than nothing.

*

Saturday, December 25, 1999

*

Barney shoots awake in the middle of the night, heart pounding from a dream he can’t quite remember. One image sticks with him: Clint, grown up like in his photo, but laying in a hospital bed, bandaged and bruised and hooked up to tubes and wires and machines pumping air into his lungs.

“Babe?” Paul mumbles, still asleep, just aware enough to roll over and wrap an arm around Barney’s waist. “Y’okay?”

“Just a bad dream,” Barney whispers, tucking himself closer.

“S’ok,” Paul soothes, groggy and still not really awake. “S’not real. Jus’ a dream. Think ‘bout Christmas. Presents tomorrow. Lots of pie. G’back to sleep, dream about pie.”

Barney closes his eyes and presses his head into the space between Paul’s neck and shoulder, and falls asleep like that, letting the taste and smell and feel of Paul drown out everything else. In the morning, he doesn’t remember the dream.

*

They all sleep in on Christmas morning, not getting up until nearly noon due to the excitement of the day before and a delicious, if light, Christmas dinner that didn’t end until after twelve.

As nice as the Costas have been before this, as kind, as welcoming, as friendly as they’ve been, something in the dynamic is different. There’s an ease that wasn’t present before, a familiarity that drops everyone’s shoulders another inch, that loosens their breath and their smiles when they talk to Barney.

“It’s because you’re really, truly family now,” Paul explains, late in the afternoon when they’ve found a quiet corner to simply be alone together for a few moments.

Barney frowns. “I thought I was before.”

“You were,” Paul assures him. “But now you’ve seen — you saw the dark side of it. And you didn’t run. You didn’t judge. You stepped up.”

“What else was I gonna do?” Barney asks.

That makes Paul laugh, wrap an arm around his waist, and squeeze tightly. “Between Mom and Vinnie, everyone in the family now knows what a calm, dependable, steady guy you are.”

“I can’t tell if that’s a good reputation to have around here.”

“As a person who can be counted on in an emergency to keep his cool? And can survive our collective drama?” Paul asks. “You saved the day yesterday.”

Barney shakes his head, then hugs Paul back and leans into his embrace.

All his life, he’s tried to be the protector. He thought that if he could control everything — if he could manage everyone around him — he could make it so nothing bad happened. So he made the plan for Clint, he made the plan for Robbie, he even made that first plan for Paul. And they all fell through. And people got hurt, and he felt like a failure.

This last year, he’s grown to learn that he doesn’t have to protect people in order for them to love him. He doesn’t have to prevent bad things from happening in order for people to want to stay with him. They want to stay with him because he’s Barney. No other reason.

Yesterday, he was back in the protector role, and it was easy: easy to put himself between Carlo and Paul and someone who would hurt them, easy to deflect and distract and change the atmosphere of the room.

He wasn’t doing it to prove himself, though. He was doing it because he could. He was confident. He didn’t have control of the situation, but he had control of himself and his reactions. And it made things better for Paul’s family.

Bailey is in Louisville with the people who adopted him as a ten-day-old infant. Clint is off somewhere with SHIELD, doing god-knows-what, thinking of Barney as a failure, as someone who abandoned him, as someone who _can’t_ be counted on when it matters most. Jackie is just...gone. There’s nothing Barney can do for any of them, and a pretty solid chance they’d reject him if he ever even tried.

He presses his face into Paul’s neck and takes a deep breath. Paul smells like Paul, and like leftover Christmas dinner, and like pine sap from the real, live Christmas tree. He focuses on that: on what he has now, on who accepts him now — Paul, Carlo, Nellie, Julie, Neil, Nana, Cousin Andy, and all the rest.

He lets the breath out slowly, and says, “I’m glad to be part of your family.”

“Me, too,” Paul replies softly. “Definitely me, too.”

*

Thursday, January 27, 2000

*

Two years to the day after getting his HIV diagnosis — and concluding that the very best course of action would be for him to break up with Paul — Barney takes a long lunch to visit a jewelry store in Carmel Valley.

He walks in and baldly tells the shopkeeper, “I’m looking for a ring for my boyfriend,” planning to walk back out and go elsewhere if he needs to.

But the elderly man, glasses perched on the end of his nose like Santa Claus, just chuckles and says, “You’re the third one this week. Do you have an idea of what you’re looking for?”

He ends up buying a set of simple gold bands, similar in style to what Carlo and Nellie wear but updated by about four decades. He thinks Paul will appreciate that.

When he gets back to the office, he puts the rings in the locked drawer of his desk. Every couple of days, he pulls them out to look at them, and every time it becomes easier to think, _This is right_.

*

Sunday, February 13, 2000

*

He meets Paul at the coffee shop after his support group meeting, and they hold hands while they meander their way home, talking idly about the weather. The temperature is in the mid-fifties and rising. The clouds are breaking up slowly, letting hints of sunlight through, and the dampness from this morning’s rain is finally starting to dry.

“How was the meeting?” Paul asks as they pass by the shopping center.

“Good,” Barney says. The ring box is in the pocket of his windbreaker, and every other step makes it bump against his hip. “One of the guys had to go to the ER last week, ‘cause of a thing. We ended up talking for a while about the, uh, you know, the domestic partnership thing. Because his boyfriend, his partner, got to stay there with him. He said they’d never let him do that before.”

Paul swerves a little bit, just enough to press into Barney’s side for a moment as they keep walking. It’s a quiet gesture of comfort that’s so very Paul. “Good for them,” he says.

“Yeah,” Barney agrees, and then he falls quiet. Thinks about Paul holding his hand — at his appointments with Dr. Beth, during his bad days curled up on the living room couch, walking down the street on a cool winter afternoon — and thinks about how he doesn’t ever, ever want to let go.

They cross the bridge over the 163 highway and go another block or two, silent, still holding hands. Then Barney takes a deep breath and says, “I know it’s just a piece of paper, and it’s just, it’s just hospital rights and that’s it. But is, is that something you think you might want someday? With me?”

Paul stops moving. Barney doesn’t notice for a moment, taking two more steps until the pull on their clasped hands makes him stop. He turns to look back at Paul, who’s staring at him with something like surprise and hope and fear all at tangled together at once.

“Paul?” he asks.

Paul blinks. “Are you...are you serious?”

Barney nods.

Paul glances around, and then tugs them off the middle of the sidewalk and onto the narrow grassy verge between the sidewalk and the parking lot. Urgently, he asks, “Was this just...did this just come up because it’s Valentine’s Day tomorrow and you were talking about it at the meeting?”

Paul’s biting his lips, and the look in his eyes is practically screaming his answer, but he’s too afraid to say it. Too afraid to make the wish and face it not coming true.

Barney aches to reassure him. “No, I’m serious. I’ve been thinking about it since the law passed, but I wanted to get your take on it, first. It’s not…”

He pauses to look down at their hands, still woven tightly together. Then he looks back up to meet Paul’s eyes and admits, “It’s not a lot. But it’s something we can have, if we want. And I...I know I want.”

Paul’s smile is bright enough to shine through a hurricane as he says, “Me, too, Barn.”

“Rings, too?” Barney asks. Some couples get them, some don’t, and Paul’s never stated a preference, but...

Paul nods, smiling even wider, and Barney never knew he could even make that expression, but he can, and he is, and it’s because of him.

“Do you want to pick them out together?” he asks. “Or will this one do?”

Before Paul can reply, he pulls away, takes the ring box out of his pocket, and drops down onto one knee right there in the grass.

“Holy shit,” Paul gasps, mouth dropping open in shock.

Barney takes a deep breath, and says the words. “Paul Giovanni Costa, will you be my legally recognized domestic partner?”

A bark of laughter bursts out of Paul, and then he’s covering his mouth with both hands, like he’s holding back laughter or tears or both, and his eyes are suddenly wet...and then he’s nodding.

Barney takes the ring sized for Paul out of the box and says, “Need your hand, babe.”

Paul laughs wetly, and reaches his left hand down. Barney takes it gently, slides the ring on, and then pulls it close to press a tender kiss to the back of it. He glances up, and Paul’s face...Paul’s face says everything.

Paul tugs on his hand, making him stand, and then reaches for the second ring. He slides it on Barney’s finger and says, “I love you.”

Then they’re kissing, right there on the sidewalk in front of their favorite cookie shop, and it’s perfect, and that’s when the cars stopped at the stoplight start honking their horns, and shouts of “Congratulations!” pour out of the street and surround them with the sound of joy.

Barney holds his partner in his arms and laughs.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> See? I CAN write happy chapter endings!
> 
> Find me at: [jhscdood.tumblr.com](http://bit.ly/2vxW1TA).


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Much love and appreciation to Kathar, shell, and Laura Kaye for the beta help!

*

Monday, February 14, 2000

*

Paul takes the Coaster up to meet Barney during his lunch hour. They fill out the Declaration of Domestic Partnership form, have it notarized, and mail it to Sacramento along with a check for the $10 filing fee.  

“Ten bucks,” Paul sighs as he drops the envelope in the mailbox with finality. “And to think, a couple years ago, Julie spent twenty grand to do essentially the same thing.”

“Do you want to do something?” Barney asks. “Don’t have to spend twenty grand to do it, but we could...there’s people who have these, these commitment ceremonies, in place of a wedding.”

Paul gives him an assessing look for a second, then drops his shoulders down and sighs. “My family is big and insane and I already deal with them twice a year as it is. I’m _still_ hungover from Julie’s wedding, and now Jason and Christie are planning theirs, and Jess isn’t that far behind…I’d rather avoid the big production, if that’s okay.”

Barney lets out a breath, relieved for a reason he can’t quite pin down. He takes Paul’s hand — the left one, because it seems that he can’t stop touching the ring that now permanently rests there — and says, “Yeah, it’s okay. Where do you want to go for lunch?”

*

Wednesday, February 16, 2000

*

Charlene calls him into her office at two in the afternoon and tells him to close the door. She waits for him to sit down across from her, then gestures at his hand and says, “You did it for the hospital visitation rights, I take it?”

Barney looks back at her calmly, because this is Charlene, and whatever point she’s trying to make, it isn’t to hurt him. “Love was a big factor, too.”

“I assumed,” she replies wryly.

“Why are we talking about this?”

“Domestic partnership is at the California state level,” she explains, frowning — but not at him. “You are a federal employee. Which means the Defense of Marriage Act applies, unfortunately.”

“It’s making my domestic partnership, what, invalid?” Barney asks, heart suddenly in his throat.

“Just when it comes to your employee benefits,” Charlene says. “Due to the DOMA, you won’t be able to put your partner on your health insurance. I wanted to let you know before HR did.”

“Oh,” Barney says. He takes a breath and lets it out slowly, waiting for his pulse to stop thundering in his ears.

“You’re the best analyst on our team,” Charlene continues. “If you want to leave for a state-level job or the private sector, I can give you some names.”

He almost says no, reflectively. But then he pauses, and instead says, “I’ve got to talk with Paul about that first.”

“Of course,” Charlene says, nodding.

“Anything else?” Barney asks, going to stand up. He’s got a lot to think about. A lot to talk to Paul about. Paul’s got a limited benefits plan, and some coverage through the VA. But this is something they need to talk about.

“One last thing,” Charlene says, making him pause. “Congratulations.”

Barney looks down at the ring on his finger and says, “Thanks.”

*

He brings it up while they’re making dinner that night. “I talked to Charlene today. She wanted to, I guess to warn me. The FBI’s a federal agency, so…”

“So the Defense of Marriage Act applies,” Paul finishes. “I wondered. How much is that going to impact us?”

Barney’s been chewing this all day. He says, “Not the hospital stuff. Which is what’s most important. But it means I can’t put you on my health insurance.”

Paul sighs heavily and stares down at the floor. Barney puts down the celery he’d been chopping and steps around the counter to take his hand. He leans in and bumps Paul’s cheek with his nose, getting him to look up again. “Hey. We haven’t lost anything, with this. And we do get some benefits. Just not all of them.”

“I know,” Paul says. “And if we were just dating, this wouldn’t even be an issue…”

“But we’re not just dating. We’re a family unit. I got a ring and a piece of paper that say so.” Barney nudges him with his elbow, because it’s unusual for Paul to get this worked up over the minutiae of government bureaucracy. “What’re you freaking out about?”

“I’m not...” Paul starts to protest, and then he bites off the rest of the words and nods jerkily. “Yeah, I guess I am.”

Barney waits for him to gather his thoughts, standing close and offering comfort.

“I just...I hate…. It’s like the government is my grandparents, and I’m the least-favorite grandson all over again,” Paul explains, resting his head on Barney’s shoulder. “They won’t give me anything, and when they’re finally forced to, they take half of it back on a whim.”

“Yeah,” Barney says. “It really…”

“Sucks,” Paul finishes.

Barney squeezes his hand. He offers, “I could...DOMA only applies because I work on the federal level. I could find something at state — the CBI, Department of Justice, State Police.”

“And move to Sacramento?” Paul asks, disgust in his tone.

“Yeah, that’d be the downside,” Barney agrees. “If that’s something you want to talk about, we can talk about it. I don’t…”

Paul straightens to look at him, and he continues, “I don’t want to leave San Diego, I don’t want to — I like the community we have here, I like our friends and I like Hillcrest. But if it’s hurting us more to stay, then we can look for something else.”

Shaking his head, Paul says, “I like it here, too. I don’t want to leave. And I don’t want you to leave a job you love and are good at just because of me.”

“It wouldn’t be because of you,” Barney replies gently. “Or it...it would be because it’s the best decision for us as a family.”

He adds, with some teasing in his tone that he doesn’t really feel, “It’s not all about _you,_ you know.”

Paul chuckles. “Yeah, I know. Sorry, I just got...”

“I know,” Barney says, and he does. He goes back to chopping up the rest of the celery, and gives Paul space to think.

“I don’t think getting better health insurance is worth the hassle of moving to Sacramento,” Paul says a few minutes later. “If you were looking for another job because you were unhappy, that’d be one thing. But you’re happy, and that’s worth putting up with a lot.”

Barney nods. “Okay. You’ll...you’ll let me know if that changes?”

Nodding back, Paul huffs out a breath and says, “Yeah, I will. I promise.”

*

Friday, February 18, 2000

*

“I like my job,” Barney says. “And my partner says he likes it that I like my job. I have no plans to go anywhere.”

The table erupts into cheers, causing heads to turn in the mid-range restaurant his entire team had dragged him to for a celebratory lunch. They’ve given him a signed “From All of Us” card and a bottle of champagne to bring home to share with Paul, plus a gift certificate to one of the fanciest restaurants in the city.

So when Jamie, another one of the forensic accountants on the team, had asked if he was going to leave for a non-DOMA-affected job, Barney had looked around at the bright faces at the table and said no.

This team has never made a big deal about him being gay. Has never been anything but supportive, from the moment he arrived. Because of this job, Barney gets to expand his skills, challenge his mind, and bring home a paycheck that lets him live his life with pride. He’s lucky as hell. And he’s not going anywhere. Not yet.

*

The party at Paul’s bar that night is as wild as lunch wasn’t. Paul and Barney’s friends combine to take up most of the space, and Paul’s boss Marco takes over tending bar so that Paul can get out and socialize with the well-wishers.

Paul stays glued to Barney’s side — or maybe Barney stays glued to Paul’s side, he can’t even tell the difference anymore — the whole night. Juan, Debbie and Lida show up with another cake, this one with rainbow frosting and “Congratulations Barney and Paul” written in purple icing.

As an — engagement? — gift, Marco offers Paul a weekend off, “Any weekend but St. Patty’s Day,” and if they want to take a trip to celebrate in style, a free room at a hotel casino in Las Vegas. “I got a friend in the business, can get me a fancy room for practically nothing. You tell me when you want to go, and I’ll make it happen.”

It’ll be the first trip they’ve taken together that isn’t to and from Pittsburgh for family visits. Barney glances at Paul, who looks back at him, grinning. “Wanna try your luck in Vegas, babe?”

Barney slips an arm around his waist and pulls him close. “My luck has been pretty good lately,” he murmurs into his ear. Paul flushes, and his grin widens, and Barney thinks, _Yes_.

*

Thursday, March 2, 2000

*

This time, it’s different. This time, it’s Barney and Paul waiting at the airport with their car parked in the short-term lot. It’s Carlo and Nellie who are flying two thousand miles for a long weekend. And it’s Paul who is bouncing nervously beside Barney at the arrivals gate, chewing on his thumbnail and fidgeting with his ring.

Barney runs his fingers through Paul’s hair, sweeps his hand down Paul’s neck and spine to settle at the small of his back. Paul stills at the touch, and says, “It’s been ten years since they last visited me here. They came to check out the city when I first moved in, but they haven’t been back.”

He glances over at Barney, eyes sad, and adds, “I didn’t think they’d ever find a good enough reason to come back.”

“You and me getting rings and filling out paperwork is a pretty good reason,” Barney observes, voice quiet.

Paul shoots him another brief glance, eyes flicking away quickly. “I never...that’s something I never expected to happen, honestly.”

Barney leans into Paul’s side and brushes a kiss to his temple.

Paul continues, “Julie and Neil had their big weddings, and now they’re producing grandkids that need visits all the time. All I do is serve drinks in a beach town. I never...I never expected them to come back...for me.”

“You’re worth it,” Barney says. “Just because you don’t fit the weddings-and-babies pattern doesn’t mean you’re not worth celebrating when something good happens.”

“Yeah,” Paul admits. “I just...I can’t believe they’re coming.”

“They were excited on the phone, right? When you told them we filed the paperwork?”

Paul smiles softly. “Dad was so happy he cried. He had to pass the phone over to Mom.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah,” Paul says, leaning more fully into Barney’s side. “Even after I explained, when I said we weren’t doing a ceremony or anything, that we were just going to do the paperwork and wear the rings and be done with it.”

“Probably relieved he doesn’t have to pay for another wedding,” Barney jokes. He’s heard the nightmare stories about Julie’s out-of-control wedding planner and Neil’s mediocre florist.

Paul snorts. “They could have flown here first class and stayed in the US Grant Hotel all week, and it still wouldn’t come close to just Julie’s _catering_ budget.”

“Yep,” Barney says. “They’ll be here till Tuesday. We’ll show them around, take them to some nice dinners, and let them celebrate us, okay? It’s not every day their son gets to be joined in holy domestic partnership, after all.”

Finally, Paul lets out a laugh and takes Barney’s hand. “Thank you for putting up with my family drama.”

“Thank _you_ for putting up with _my_ family drama,” Barney replies.

“Your family drama is over with,” Paul says, because Paul thinks that the door to Clint closed permanently when Barney sent Dustin Hoernecke packing. He’s probably right. “It’s one of the things I like about you.”

Barney rolls his eyes. “Yeah, well, now your family drama is legally my family drama, so you’ll have to find new things to like about me.”

Paul’s eyes soften. “I’m sure I’ll be able to think of something.”

Then the doors at the gate open and let out a long stream of travelers, including Carlo and Nellie. Barney and Paul wave to get their attention. When the parents catch sight of them and get close enough, Barney meets their eyes and jerks his head to the right, toward Paul. His in-laws take the hint and immediately wrap their arms around Paul, wedging him between them in a giant hug.

Paul squeaks, and Barney laughs.

*

Saturday, March 4, 2000

*

After an entire day spent at the zoo, they use the gift certificate from Barney’s team to take Carlo and Nellie to a nice dinner on the town. They still end up going over — the certificate amount was for two, not four, after all — and the parents insist on paying the balance when the check comes.

“This is a gift from your Nana,” Carlo explains, grabbing the bill out of Barney’s hand. “Who, by the way, is livid we’re not throwing another big wedding.”

“Of course she is,” Paul sighs. “She got to do a keg stand halfway through the last one, thanks to Andy.”

“That boy,” Nellie sighs, shaking her head.

“Wait, Nana did a _keg stand_ at Julie’s wedding?” Barney asks.

Paul shoots him a look. “Reason number eighty-seven why I don’t want this to be a big thing: Cousin Andy is a really bad influence at parties.”

“We would have thrown you a big thing if you wanted, son,” Carlo says, voice serious as he stares at Paul across the table.

Paul looks down and then away, avoiding his father’s gaze. “I know.”

Carlo keeps looking at him, the same look Paul gets when he’s trying to figure Barney out. Then he asks, “Is it about the money? The production? Or about your grandparents?”

“It’s not about my grandparents,” Paul huffs, and Barney can see that yes, yes, part of it actually is. “They wouldn’t come, and I wouldn’t invite them, anyway.”

“You invite anyone you want, son, it’s your wedding.”

Paul looks down again, and Barney takes his hand, resting it lightly on the linen table top. Paul fiddles with Barney’s ring nervously. Then he says, “I just want to be with Barney. Without all the...we’ve already been through...I just want to be with Barney and enjoy it. A big, fancy ceremony, that’s not enjoyable.”

There’s a quiet moment, and then Nellie asks, “How do _you_ feel about that, Barney?”

Barney looks at Paul — seven years older than when they first met, out of the military ten years now, out of Pittsburgh for nearly sixteen — and knows he wants to keep looking at that face for the rest of his life, no matter what.

“Parties are fun,” he says, and squeezes Paul’s hand. “But they’re not as important as _this_. This right here. That’s what matters to me.”

He pauses, and in that moment realizes why he hasn’t been pushing Paul on the subject, why he’s shied away from the idea of a big family event: because Clint wouldn’t be there. Clint might never be there.

“And I don’t…” he begins, looking down at the tabletop so that he doesn’t have to see their faces, see how his words make them sad. “I don’t want to…. It doesn’t feel right to do something without my brother there.”

The thought of standing with Paul in front of everyone they know except for his _brother_ draws a burning pain to his chest. Twelve years since he’s seen his brother, nearly, and he still can’t quite wrap his mind around living life without him. Can’t imagine how he might ever get him back.

He realizes that three sets of eyes are on him, and he coughs, looking away. “But if there’s an extra cake for us at this year’s barbecue, that’s fine. And if…. We can always do something on our ten-year anniversary, that’s coming up pretty fast.”

“That’s seven years away,” Paul says, and Barney knows he’s intentionally redirecting the conversation, away from the dicey topic of the absent Clint.

“That’s three years away,” Barney contends, recovering himself. “November 18, 1993. You served me a Long Island iced tea you said was your father’s recipe and promised you’d take care of me.”

“That was a line!” Paul protests, laughing.

“That was a _good_ line,” Barney shoots back.

They spend the rest of the dessert course and walk to the car debating when to count the beginning of their relationship — when they got together the first time, when they got together the second time, whether to subtract the year and a half they spent broken up — and no one says anything else about weddings, parties, grandparents, or brothers.

*

Friday, March 31, 2000

*

They don’t take their long weekend until the end of the month. First they have to recover from the whirlwind that is Nellie and Carlo’s visit. Then it’s St. Patrick’s Day weekend, which ends with Paul passed out in exhaustion on the couch by Sunday afternoon, green paint still staining his hair.

Finally, though, they hop in the car and drive five or so hours northeast — through San Bernardino, around the Mojave Desert, and past a tiny town called Zzyzx, CA that has Paul cracking up in the passenger seat — to Las Vegas. They exit off the 15 at Tropicana Avenue, pull the car into valet stand, and go to look for the check-in desk.

It takes a while to walk through the casino and then find the elevator that will take them to their floor and not another bank of slot machines. They finally find the right door and use the fancy magnetic key card to open it up.

Barney stops short and blinks as he takes in the room. When Marco had said he’d get them a place to stay, Barney had assumed it’d be, well, a hotel room. Four walls, double bed, tiny bathroom. The usual. But the usual is not what Marco got them.

Marco got them into the Tower Spa Suite, which is nearly the size of their apartment and is decked out with a king bed, a seating area with a long couch along one wall, a giant armchair, and desk big enough for two.

“Marco really does like you,” Barney observes, frozen just inside the doorway.

“Of course he does, I’m his best bartender,” Paul replies, closing the door behind them. He launches himself onto the couch, which looks wide enough to seat five, and says, “You realize we need to have sex on every piece of furniture in here, right?”

Barney snorts, and steps over to the bathroom door to peek inside. There’s a mirrored double vanity. A glass-paneled shower stall. And a tub big enough to fit two grown men, if they don’t mind snuggling a little.

“Paul,” he calls.

Paul jumps to his feet and hurries over. “Oh my god. We are definitely using that. Today.”

“Before or after dinner?” Barney asks.

Stepping up to the (huge) bathtub, Paul turns on the faucets. He turns to look at Barney over his shoulder, glances at him up and down, and says, “Take off your clothes.”

Barney shakes his head and walks back out to the main living area. He arranges their bags on the luggage rack, turns down the blankets on the bed...and then strips. They drove for a long time today, and had a quick lunch just over an hour ago. A hot bath does sound good.

The tub is so wide, Barney can comfortably sit between Paul’s legs, wrapped in his arms and leaning back against his chest. It’s deep enough that the water comes up nearly to their shoulders, warming up sore muscles. Barney rests his head back onto Paul’s shoulder and says, “This was a good idea.”

“Yeah, it was,” Paul replies, sliding his hands slowly up and down Barney’s sides. “We should get domestically partnered more often, if it gets us this kind of treatment.”

Barney huffs out a laugh. “I’ll get domestically partnered with you every day, if you want. Sacramento might get pissed at us for all the duplicate paperwork, though.”

“I’m sure the bureaucracy will somehow survive,” Paul says. His hands, hot from the water and slick with soap, rub lightly at Barney’s neck, the tops of his shoulders and arms, where he tends to get sore after driving for a while.

Paul presses down on a knot in his shoulder until it suddenly releases, sending tingles down his back. Barney moans, and the quiet “Love you” slips out of him before he knows what he’s saying.

Paul’s hands don’t even pause, even though Barney’s breath has caught in his throat, because it’s the first time he’s ever been able to say those words out loud and shit, it wasn’t the intentional pronouncement he’s dreamed about making, it was a fucking accident during a neck rub.

“You talking to me, or the fancy bathtub?” Paul asks, quiet but amused all the same, because Paul’s never cared about Barney’s emotional hang-ups.

Barney rolls his eyes, tension easing as swiftly as it arrived. “Definitely the bathtub.”

Paul drops his head to nibble on his earlobe, shooting more sparks across his body. “You sure about that?”

Inspiration hits. Barney rolls, letting the buoyancy of the water help him slip around so that he is straddling Paul’s lap, holding onto him with the strength of his thighs. Paul is hard, and Barney is nearly there; he leans forward to slide their cocks against each other and says, “I...”

Breath hitching, hips jerking up to rub against him, Paul asks, “You...you what?”

“You love me,” Barney says, voice sure. He reaches under the water for Paul’s chest and rubs circles around his nipples with his thumbs until they harden, and then lightly scrapes them with his nails.

“Yesss,” Paul hisses. With a splash, he drops his hands from Barney’s shoulders and takes hold of his ass, pulling him even closer and trapping their cocks between them.

They grind together, heat and pressure ratcheting them both higher and higher as the splash of their movements echoes across the bathroom and water soaks the tiled floor surrounding the tub.

“And you,” Paul adds, squeezing his ass tightly and grinding against him, hard and hot and heavy. “You love me. I know, mmm, I know ‘cause you bought me a ring.”

Barney’s so turned on, so hard, so close to coming, so far away from his walls he can’t even see them anymore with a telescope; he presses his face into Paul’s neck and gasps, “Yeah, yeah I did.”

He scrapes his teeth across the sensitive spot on Paul’s neck. Hips jerking, chest heaving, Paul comes with a deep groan.

Then Paul lets go of Barney’s ass. One hand travels up, cupping the back of Barney’s neck, angling his head so that he can look deep into his eyes. The other hand moves to his cock and starts stroking him under the water.

“You bought me a ring ‘cause you love me,” Paul whispers, voice wrecked.

“Yeah,” Barney agrees. He keeps their eyes locked, intense and focused. “Yeah.”

“You love me. You told me so.” Paul adds a twist to his wrist movement that makes Barney see stars.

He closes his eyes for a moment, soaring through the feeling, then fights to open them again, to not give into the pressure in his balls. “Yeah, yeah I did.”

“And now I’m wearing your ring. And you’re wearing mine.”

Barney starts to pant, forcing himself to wait, not to come yet, but he can’t speak anymore, he can’t say it, all he can do is look into Paul’s eyes and hope that he can see it all.

“Come on, baby. Come for me. You love me, so come for me.”

Barney throws his head back and comes. Paul grabs him, drags his head back down and kisses him — deep, biting kisses that pull the breath from his lungs and make his lips tender and swollen. They go on and on, until the water in the tub is cool and every muscle in Barney’s body is loose and relaxed.

Paul seems to have retained all of the coordination that Barney has lost. He stands and pulls Barney up with him, then helps him step out of the tub and into the shower stall to rinse off. After they’re sufficiently clean, he towels them both dry and steers them out of the bathroom and toward the giant, pillow-top king bed.

Paul pushes him face-down onto the soft cotton sheets. Still caught up in an endorphin haze, Barney has the vague thought that they might nap before dinner. He closes his eyes. A few seconds or years later, he opens them again when he hears the familiar click of the lube bottle cap, and feels wet fingers trail down the cleft of his ass and press gently inside him. All he can do is moan in response, urging Paul on.

Paul fingers him for what feels like forever, until his breath is coming in short gasps and his cock is heavy and hard, pressing against the expensive sheets and staining them with pre-come. Finally, there’s the tear of the condom wrapper, and Paul’s knees spreading his legs wider, and Paul’s cock slowly sliding into him, until they’re pressed together, skin against skin, from head to toe. Barney feels warm, and cherished, and like...like he’s on his honeymoon.

Paul starts to move, rocking his hips carefully, every stroke drawing quiet moans and whimpers out of Barney’s mouth that he can’t suppress, doesn’t want to silence. He just wants to lay there and take everything that Paul gives him.

Time starts to slip. The rest of the world falls away. The only things that exist are the sheets underneath him and Paul on top of him, inside of him. He thinks that when he finally comes, he might die.

“Paul,” he cries, as he’s overwhelmed with feeling, to intense, too deep, too everything, and it scares him. He scrambles his hands up toward his pillow, reaching for something to hold onto, because he’s suddenly at sea without an anchor and he doesn’t know why. “Oh my god, Paul!”

“I got you, baby,” Paul croons. He strokes down Barney’s arms, slides his hands on top of Barney’s and weaves their fingers together, gripping tightly. Then he presses them down, just on either side of Barney’s head, a safe, solid pressure. He leans forward to nibble on the back of Barney’s neck and shoulders, changing the angle of his thrusts to stroke across his prostate with every push. “I got you, baby, you’re so good. You’re so good, I love you so much.”

Barney starts to shake, his body trembling from emotions and endorphins and really, really good sex. He squeezes Paul’s fingers and buries his face in the pillow, groaning as his balls tighten and his cock gets suddenly harder.

Then he’s coming again, with the finely woven sheets rubbing against his cock, and Paul’s body, pressed against him and inside him and around him. He clenches down, feels it when Paul’s hips jerk as he finds his release, and sighs, satisfied.

Paul pulls out carefully and lifts off him, shifting to toss the condom in the trash. Barney rolls onto his side, away from the wet spot, and looks at him through half-lidded eyes.

“Hey.” Paul smiles warmly, and lets himself be pulled into Barney’s arms, head resting on Barney’s chest just above his tattoo.

“Hey,” Barney says. “Nap for a while, and then dinner?”

Paul hums and closes his eyes. “Sounds good.”

*

It’s nearly nine by the time they make it downstairs to one of the fancy restaurants for dinner. They end up at the steakhouse, and trade bites of short rib and T-bone steak as they debate hitting the slot machines or the gaming tables.

“You have a terrible poker face, Barn,” Paul laughs.

“I do _not_ have a terrible poker face,” Barney protests hotly. “I am a federal agent. They teach us poker faces at Quantico.”

Paul smirks, and steals another bite of short rib. “Then why do I always know what you’re thinking?”

Barney shifts in his seat. “Because they don’t teach classes on Paul Costa at Quantico. Obviously that’s something they need to fix.”

“Are you gonna teach it?”

“I don’t know,” Barney says, and he tries to keep a straight face, but it doesn’t hold. “I feel like I need more...field experience. You know. Before I’m fully qualified.”

Paul kicks him under the table and laughs.

*

They decide to do a walk-through of the casino after dinner, to find out what’s all there and where everything is located. They stop on a long, sweeping balcony looking out over the gaming floor, taking in the gilded architecture, the games, and the hundreds of people milling about below them. Music echoes from different corners of the room, and cheers ring out regularly from scattered groups, flocked around lit-up slot machines.

Tucked up next to Paul at the railing, Barney scans the crowd below, and then lifts his gaze to take in the people on the balcony. Some are walking with purpose toward the stairs at either end; others are standing still, looking out over the floor as well.

A group of four women in their early twenties sporting those little black dresses everyone their age seems to wear steps away from the railing. They head toward the stairs, talking excitedly. Through the space they left, Barney can see a stocky blonde man standing on the balcony, his arms resting lightly on the railing as he stares intently at the floor.

The man shifts his shoulders and turns his head a few more degrees, and the bottom drops out of Barney’s stomach, his chest starts burning with a fiery ache, and rolling, rumbling, echoing thunder crashes in his ears.

He’s nineteen, and there’s blood on his face, and he can’t breathe.

“What is it?” Paul asks, voice coming from far, far away, barely breaking through the panic in his brain. “Barney? What’s wrong?”

Barney reaches toward him blindly, eyes still locked on the man down the way, heart still trapped in 1988. Paul takes his hand. He squeezes it tightly, tries to center himself, to bring himself back to the present.

“It’s Clint,” he says hoarsely, and he doesn’t recognize himself. “My brother. Over there.”

“What? Clint?” Paul asks, body tensing as he turns to look in the direction Barney’s staring. “Are you sure?”

Clinton Francis Barton, his baby brother, aged twenty-eight years and nine months, is standing thirty feet away from them in a resort casino in Vegas.

Clint is here. Clint is _right here_. Alive and safe and standing right in front of him.

And there’s nothing, absolutely nothing stopping Barney from calling his name, from crossing that distance, from reaching out and touching his hand and saying, _Clint, it’s me._

...And there’s nothing stopping Clint from turning away, saying, _Get away from me_ , nothing stopping him from ripping Barney apart for the mistakes he made every day of their lives, nothing stopping him from making every single one of Barney’s fears a reality.

But he’s right here.

“It’s him,” Barney rasps. “It’s...I have his picture, from his file, I know it’s him.”

“Then I’m going to punch him in the face,” Paul says, taking a step forward, toward Clint.

“Paul!” Barney pulls him back, spins him around until Paul is facing him, and Barney can see the fury in his expression clear as day. “You’ve never started a fight in your life! What the hell?”

Paul blows out a breath and replies, just a little calmer, “Okay, sorry, sorry. I’m not going to punch him, but...Jesus, Barn! Twelve years! Twelve years, and not a word from him? He runs off to his super-secret spy agency and can’t be bothered to call you for _twelve years?”_

Shocked at the protective anger in Paul’s voice — over Clint of all people — Barney can only manage to ask, “What?”

“You looked for him! You called everyone you could and he just disappeared off the map, you tried to find him and you couldn’t, and it tore you apart!” Paul argues, and his face is full of frustration and pain. “What’s his excuse? You’re in the phone book! Search for you on the white pages website and our phone number is the first result!”

Barney stares over Paul’s shoulder at Clint; the angles of his face, the line of his shoulders, his casual stance as he watches the crowd on the floor. He’s searched and searched and now he’s _right there._ “‘Course he didn’t, he doesn’t know...I never explained what happened, why I left him there.”

Paul scoffs. “He could have figured that out. He could have called you up and _asked_. He hid from you instead and wouldn’t let you find him, and it _killed you_ , and it’s _still killing you_ , and— ”

Breaking off, Paul closes his eyes, takes a deep breath, and then lets it out in a huff. He opens his eyes back up and looks at Barney, temper reined in slightly, enough to say, “I’m sorry. I’m sorry, Barney, I promise I won’t punch him. I won’t stop you from talking to him.”

He glances over his shoulder at Clint, then squeezes Barney’s hand gently, and continues, “I just want you to be careful, okay? He’s not expecting to see you, he might not _want_ to see you, we don’t know what Hoernecke said to him, it’s, it’s not going to be the reunion of your dreams.”

Barney glances back and forth; to Paul, gazing at him with fear and love and a protectiveness that fits like a warm blanket, and to Clint, still focused on the floor, raising a hand now to fiddle with his hearing aid.

Clint’s lips move, and Barney reads him saying, _Yes, ma’am._

It’s not just a hearing aid. It’s a comm unit.

Barney sags, and the anticipation churning in his gut transforms to disappointment in a flash. “Shit.”

Paul straightens, body ready for confrontation. “What is it? Did he see you?”

“No, he didn’t see me, but...” He turns his head, keeping an eye on Clint as he speaks quietly, so he’s not heard by anyone but Paul. “He’s got...he’s got a radio. He’s dressed for the venue but with rubber-soled shoes he can run in.”

Thinking like an agent now, he quickly sweeps his eyes across the floor and back over to the balcony. “He’s in...he’s in the best spot to get a view of the whole floor, and he’s watching that woman in the green dress — don’t look at her — like she’s a target, not a...a civilian.”

“You think he’s on the job?” Paul asks quietly. “That’s why he’s here? He’s not just doing Vegas?”

Barney watches, measuring the details and comparing them to his training at Quantico, his time spent at the San Diego FBI offices, and every passing moment makes him more and more sure. Clint’s stance, the way he’s positioned, the way he turns his head just so. He’s well-trained, obviously beyond competent at what he does, and obviously, _obviously_ in work mode.

Barney finishes his assessment, looks at Paul and nods. Paul’s expression twists, and he says, “Probably a bad idea to interrupt him, then?”

“Understatement,” Barney agrees, disappointed and relieved in equal measure. If he approaches his brother right now, the best-case scenario is that Clint is only mildly distracted, but still accomplishes whatever he was sent here to do. What’s more likely to happen: Clint’s concentration is shot, his cover is blown, he gains the attention of the wrong people, or the mission fails.

The worst-case scenario...Barney’s already spent six weeks of his life living the worst-case scenario and hating himself every minute of it. He can’t do that again.

And if Paul is right. If Clint’s been deliberately avoiding Barney all these years, covering his tracks and cutting ties with any mutual contacts and sending his friend Agent Hoernecke to find out if Barney’s an asshole...then this can’t be the reunion Barney’s been hoping for.

It’s suddenly, agonizingly clear that Clint doesn’t forgive Barney for leaving him at the hospital in Cleveland. That Clint hates him for doing it. That Clint doesn’t want anything to do with Barney, has been intentionally avoiding him, would prefer to never see him or speak to him ever again. That the best thing, the kindest thing, Barney can do for him right now is pick up his emotional baggage and _leave him_.

“If we stand here any longer, he _is_ going to see us,” Paul says quietly, interrupting his chain of thought, momentarily breaking through the thunder. “What’s the plan?”

Deep down inside, Barney feels like a part of himself is dying. His brother is standing right there in front of him, and he can’t reach out. Can’t talk to him, can’t apologize for all the wrongs he’s done him, can’t beg him to listen, to accept, to forgive….

His brother is standing right there, and just like every other defining moment in their lives, Barney turns and walks away.

Paul jogs a few steps to catch up with him. “Barn? Are you…”

“Let’s just...just get up to the room,” Barney grinds out, holding himself together, but only just.

He’s silent the rest of the way upstairs, Paul standing beside him as if to guard him from the rest of the world. It’s not until they’re behind closed doors that Barney lets himself feel everything.

He doesn’t know how he gets to the couch, just finds himself sitting in the middle of it, wrapped in Paul’s arms and burying his head in Paul’s chest and making a sound he’s never heard before. Under his cheek, Paul’s shirt is damp.

He doesn’t know how long they sit there, how long he lets out broken sobs, how long Paul holds him. All he can think about is Clint. Clint, flying across the living room from the force of Dad’s punch, unconscious before he even hit the wall. Clint, sitting on an ER exam table with bandaged ears and a scowl. Clint, dead on the concrete. Clint, alive but broken, bandaged, scarred, and scared out of his mind.

“He cried when I left him,” Barney chokes out between sobs and gasps for breath. “He was just...he was just a kid, and I left him...and everyone in Cleveland said how much that fucked him up, and then Hoernecke comes and says that I’m a threat to him, that I _damaged_ him, that all I could ever do is hurt him more….”

“Hey,” Paul croons, rubbing his back slowly. “Hey, come on. Come on, Barn, you know better than that.”

“Do I?” Barney demands, pulling his face away to glare at Paul. “Everything bad that ever happened to him was my fault.”

“Did you shoot him, Barn?” Paul asks sharply.

He shakes his head. “No, but I—”

Even harder, “Did you shoot him?”

“No,” Barney admits. As much blame as he takes for the shooting, Trickshot was the one who ultimately pulled the trigger.

“All you wanted to do was protect him. All you ever wanted to do was protect him,” Paul says. “You made the best choices you could. Anybody who can’t see that is an idiot.”

Barney pulls away, just far enough to reach his hands up to his face and wipe his eyes. “Yeah, but I made some really stupid choices.”

Paul nudges him. “We all make stupid choices at that age. Me, I joined the Marines. You joined the Navy. Stupid choices everywhere.”

It’s not enough to make Barney laugh, but it helps lift some of the weight off his chest. He’s talked about this before. He _knows_ what happened to Clint isn’t his fault. But seeing Clint standing there, in fitted slacks and a tailored shirt and a gold wristwatch, blending in effortlessly with the casino crowd...in the heat of the moment, all the reasons Barney's not to blame fizzled away, leaving him with just that lasting, ever-present guilt.

“Why…” Barney begins. He hesitates. But if he can’t ask this question now, he may never ask, and it’ll sit there and gnaw at him for years down the line. “Why didn’t you want me to talk to Clint downstairs?”

Paul flops back against the couch cushion and shakes his head. “Because you’re not the only protective asshole in this relationship, I guess.”

“Paul,” Barney says. “Come on.”

Scowling, Paul looks down at the pattern on the upholstery and admits, “You met my grandparents. You know they never talk to me.”

“Yeah, I know,” Barney says. He leans over to the side table and grabs a handful of tissues, using them to wipe his face as he listens. “They’re assholes.”

“Yeah,” Paul laughs without humor. “Well, there was about a year, a little less maybe, when I was in high school, a junior. Neil and Julie had both moved out and I was feeling lonesome. I decided I was going to reunite with my grandparents.”

Barney winces. “I’m guessing that didn’t….”

“I called them once a week for almost a year. They never picked up. I’d leave them these long, involved messages on their answering machine about my life and what I was doing. I thought if I tried hard enough, I could make them like me.”

“Oh, Paul,” Barney sighs.

“I was sixteen, what did I know?” Paul says with a shrug. “I gave up when they disconnected their answering machine. But you know what I learned?”

“What did you learn?” Barney asks, in lieu of calling the elder Costas assholes again.

Paul sits forward, takes Barney’s hand and _looks_ at him. “I learned you can try as hard as you can to have a relationship with someone. But if they don't want to put the effort in, it’s not going to work out. No matter how much you might want it. You can’t...you can’t force it.”

“I know,” Barney says, looking down and nodding.

Paul sighs. “I’m not sure that you do, babe.”

Barney looks back up at him questioningly, and Paul explains, “You throw yourself into things a hundred and ten percent. And sometimes the things you throw yourself into wind up hurting you.

“You know, you...You got diagnosed with HIV and tried to break up with me for my own good. Robbie was in trouble so you threw yourself down a flight of stairs. If Clint shows up and says he hates you, what are you going to do to yourself to get him to change his mind?”

“I don’t— I wouldn’t—” Barney stammers.

Paul levels him with a look. Barney closes his eyes against it. Thinks about Robbie, and the stupid plan he came up with to protect him. Thinks about throwing Dustin Hoernecke out of his office rather than risk reconnecting with Clint when he thought he was dying. Thinks about refusing to tell his friends about his diagnosis, convinced he’d be a burden. Thinks about shouting in the Costa family kitchen, calling himself poison — not sick, not convalescing, but poison — and the certainty that he could only protect Paul by leaving him.

Barney raises the wad of tissues to wipe at his eyes again. Paul’s right. Paul’s right to be worried about what he might do. Except… “I just...he’s my only family, Paul.”

“Really?” Paul asks. “Because I have a ring and a piece of paper that say you’re building your own family now. With people _you_ chose. People who are there for you, no matter what.”

Barney looks down at their clasped hands and nods. “I know. I know you are.”

Paul squeezes Barney’s hand and gives him that same intense look, like he’s been holding onto these words for years, just waiting for the chance to let them free. “You shouldn’t have to fight with someone to make them love you. You deserve to be loved as you are. You shouldn’t have to prove it.”

Barney bites his lip. It’s the same thing Nellie said two years ago. He’s been trying to accept it, to work on it. And he has. Or at least, he’d thought.

Maybe Clint is that last stronghold — the belief, somewhere deep down, that if only _Clint_ would accept him, would forgive him, then that would _prove_ that Barney was worth something...would prove that he matters.

What an awful amount of pressure to put on Clint, Barney realizes.  

“I don’t want to watch you rip yourself apart to reconnect with Clint when he hasn’t made any effort on his end,” Paul finishes. “It’s not fair to you.”

Barney nods, and takes a deep breath. “You’re right. I think I’ve...I think I’ve been feeling so guilty for so long about what happened when we were kids, I’ve just…”

He closes his eyes and tries to find his center. “It’s like your mom said. I keep trying to prove I’m worthy of love. And if it turns out my brother doesn’t love me…”

He makes an explosion gesture with his hands, and Paul chuckles quietly. “If it helps, I think Clint’s the last holdout of that attitude.”

“Oh, good. Because I’m getting tired of running face-first into it,” Barney replies, relaxing and leaning into Paul’s side. Paul swings an arm around his shoulders and presses a kiss to his temple.

“Thank you,” Barney says. “For setting me straight. And protecting me.”

Paul tightens his hold. “You deserve it.”

Barney nods. “Yeah.”

“And,” Paul begins. He pauses. Sighs. Continues, “If you want me to go downstairs and try to find him, see if he’ll come up here and talk to you, I can do that. I’m not saying don’t talk to him, I just...I wanted you to be prepared.”

“I love you,” Barney says, making Paul’s eyes widen in surprise. “Whether I reunite with my brother or not, that’s not ever gonna change. You’re still going to be the most important person in my life.”

Paul heaves in a shaky breath and wipes his eyes with his palms. “Okay...”

“But, you’re right,” Barney admits, thinking back to the balcony, how Clint had looked, Barney’s reactions, and the points that Paul has made. “He’s...he’s made himself un-findable for a reason. Whether he hates me or he’s just not ready or, or whatever reason, he’s...it’s, it’s up to him to make the call, not me. And I’m in the phone book.”

“And?” Paul asks quietly.

Barney leans against him, feeling wrung out and exhausted. “And in the meantime, we’ve got a honeymoon to celebrate, right?”

Paul looks at him, eyes red, skin damp with tears, and still the best thing Barney’s ever laid eyes on. “Hell of a honeymoon,” he finally says.

Barney nods. “Got me to say ‘I love you’ twice, though.”

Paul finally smiles — really smiles — for the first time since they stepped onto the balcony downstairs. “That makes it three.”

“I could be convinced to make it four,” Barney offers gently.

Paul raises his hand and cups Barney’s cheek, then leans forward to press a light kiss to his mouth. He pulls away and says, “Save it for tomorrow?”

Barney leans forward to chase the kiss, pressing his mouth to Paul’s lips, his cheeks, his puffy eyelids, his forehead, until Paul sighs and all of the tension leaves his body.

“Tomorrow,” he promises.

*

Monday, April 3, 2000

*

It takes five transfers, with a total on-hold time of 68 minutes, but Barney finally navigates his way through SHIELD’s absolutely atrocious auto attendant phone system. He only knows he’s succeeded when the ringtone changes, and an actual human being answers the call with, “Agent Hoernecke.”

Barney releases the breath he’d been holding for far too long. “This is Barney Barton, we met a couple years ago when you—”

“Yes, I remember,” Hoernecke interrupts. “The Cleveland PD case.”

“I saw Clint on Friday,” Barney admits. “I didn’t talk to him. It looked like he was on a mission, so I left. But afterward, people said there had been a fight, that people had been carried off, and I wanted, I wanted to make sure he was okay.”

“Did he see you?” Hoernecke demands.

“No,” Barney says.

“Are you _sure?”_

Barney feels his hackles rise; Hoernecke still gets under his skin like no one else he’s ever met. This time, he manages to keep his tone more civil in answering, “Yes, I’m sure. Can you just tell me if he’s alright?”

Hoernecke lets out a gusty sigh. “Thank you for not compromising an active SHIELD agent on an active SHIELD operation. Give me a moment.”

There’s a pause, and the sound of a keyboard being typed on with unusual vigor. “You understand I cannot give you _any_ details?”

Barney nods. “I know.”

“ _Healthy and financially solvent,”_ Hoernecke mutters under his breath, just loud enough for Barney to hear. He chooses not to comment, not willing to risk getting hung up on. Then, “He has no recorded injuries. That’s all I can tell you.”

That’s enough. “Okay. Okay. Thank you.”

“Anything else?” Hoernecke asks shortly.

“No, that’s it,” Barney says politely. He thinks about how confident Clint had looked, like he had his life completely together, and didn’t need someone from his past life bursting in on him. “Thank you, Agent Hoernecke, you’ve been very helpful.”

The line goes dead. Barney sets the receiver back on the cradle. Clint is okay. Clint made it through whatever went down at the MGM Grand while Barney was up on the twentieth floor having a meltdown in Paul’s arms. He’s a successful, accomplished SHIELD agent, and that’s the very best that Barney could have ever hoped for him.

He knows he didn’t do the best job raising Clint — too young himself, and traumatized, and floundering with too much weight on his shoulders. But Clint made it through everything despite that, and now he’s living his own life.

Barney figures, after everything, that’s all he could hope for.

*

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ~~One more chapter to go! Sit tight!~~ Never believe me when I say this.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for:  
> \- Hospitals and non-graphic bodily injuries  
> \- One reference to someone using a homophobic slur in the past  
> \- Discussions of biphobia

 *

Thursday, June 3, 2004

*

Barney gets to work at eight, drinks his coffee and reads through the _Louisville-Courier_ like he does every day. He’s no longer scouring every page for mentions of his nephew, wondering how school board decisions and local crime rates are affecting him and his family. Now, it’s just a habit. Part of his routine.

Bailey’s name has been in the paper a handful of times – when he completed middle school, when he made honor roll – and Barney has clipped out and filed every article. Bailey’s photo hasn’t graced its pages, though, not since the time he posed with his bike when he was ten.

Not until today. It’s Bailey’s tenth grade class photo staring up at him from page three, underneath the headline, “Honor Student Hospitalized After Hit-and-Run.”

Stomach churning, Barney reads the article quickly, desperate for details. Bailey was on his bicycle. He was wearing his helmet. The car ran a stop sign. Bailey was transported by emergency services to the trauma center in Louisville. He’s currently in intensive care, and as of today’s printing, hadn’t woken up yet.

Barney spins in his chair and looks up the phone number to the hospital on his computer. Within a minute, he’s dialing the number for the patient hotline, and saying, “Hi, yes, I’m calling for information on a patient there, please.”

“What’s the name, hon?” the woman on the other end of the line asks.

“Bailey Ramirez, he’s fifteen, I think he was brought in two days ago, he’d, he’d been hit by a car, he was on his bike,” he blurts, even though he knows all she needs to hear is the name. Nerves are making him stupid. God, what if he’s–

“Okay! Ramirez, Bailey. He’s in critical condition in the Pediatric Intensive Care Unit, room 210C. Would you like me to put the call through?”

“No! No, thank you, that’s– thank you.”

He presses the button on the receiver and then dials the apartment, tapping his fingers on his desk as he waits for the call to connect. He has to talk to Paul. He can’t just run off into the blue without a word. Part of being in a partnership is making decisions together – but oh, it hurts not to be already out the door and heading straight to the airport.

After the sixth ring, Paul answers the phone with a mumbled, “Yeah? H’lo?”

“Hey, it’s me,” Barney says, calm as he can be – which isn’t very, considering the circumstances. He fights to keep his tone level, but just hearing Paul’s voice has made his emotional control crack even further. “I need you to try and wake up, I need to talk to you about something important.”

“Barney?” Paul asks, instantly awake and concerned. There’s the sound of shifting and movement – Paul sitting up, getting out of bed, and walking into the kitchen. Barney leaves a pot of coffee brewing every morning; he hears Paul pour a cup, and then Paul says, “Okay. I’m up. What’s going on?”

Barney lets out a long breath, and tries to pace himself this time. “My nephew Bailey’s in the hospital, in Louisville. There was a hit-and-run, he was on his bike and...he’s in critical condition, Paul.”

“Shit,” Paul says. “How did you find out?”

“It was in the local paper. The _Louisville-Courier._ I still… Um, I still have the subscription,” Barney admits.

There’s a pause, and then a resigned, “Of course you do.”

“Paul…” Barney groans. This isn’t the time for that argument, Bailey is hurt, Bailey is 1,500 miles away and he’s _hurt._

“Okay,” Paul says, dropping it. His voice gets firmer. “Okay. What do you need?”

“I...I don’t know,” Barney admits. “He’s hurt, he’s in the pediatric ICU, I couldn’t… The hospital couldn’t give me any more information over the phone.”

“His family is there with him, though, right? His adoptive family?”

“Yeah. I mean, I’d assume so,” Barney says. Caroline Ramirez and Gabriela Ramon, college graduates, lifetime residents of Louisville, and adoptive mothers of Bailey Barton since August 2, 1988. Barney did his homework a long time ago. “They’d...they’d have to be. They’re his family.”

Paul makes a sound, and Barney can just see him there: sitting at the kitchen table, holding the phone receiver between his shoulder and ear, rubbing the bridge of his nose, eyes pressed tightly closed.

“You’re his family, too,” Paul finally says.

“That’s not… I don’t know what to do,” he says. “When I found him again I swore I’d leave him alone so long as he was safe. His parents, they’re good people, they didn’t need me bothering them.”

“But now he’s hurt, and you’re scared,” Paul observes quietly. “You don’t do so well when someone you love is hurt.”

“I… No, I don’t,” he admits quietly. “I’m scared. It’s...it looks bad.”

“I understand, babe. Really, I do. And you’re allowed to be worried about your nephew, no matter the family situation. If you go out there–”

Barney cuts in, “I’m not saying I’m gonna go out there–”

“That’s exactly what you’re saying, Barn, come on,” is the pointed response. Barney can just imagine him rolling his eyes as he says it. “You want to go out there and set eyes on him and make sure he’s gonna be okay. I’d feel the same way if it were Regina or Britney or Courtney, you know that. But if you go, you can’t…There’s boundaries in a situation like this that you can’t cross. You can't be there as an uncle, Barn, they don't know you.”

“I’m not going to...” Barney trails off, and then redirects to, “I know there are rules about this. He’s fifteen, he can’t access his adoption records until he’s eighteen, and Clint...Clint’s got the right to meet him first. He’s Clint’s son.”

“Yeah. He’s Clint’s son,” Paul echoes softly, meaningfully, like there’s something Barney isn’t quite catching.

Barney thinks of that day, four years ago, when he saw Clint on the balcony of the MGM Grand Las Vegas and walked away. He’s put it out of his mind since then, tried to accept that the ball is in Clint’s court. That it’s up to Clint to make contact with him if that’s what he wants. That he can’t push, can’t ask for more than Clint is willing to give, no matter how much he may want it. That it might never happen.

Bailey is different. He can't explain why.

“So, you gonna fly out there?” Paul asks after a long moment.

“Yeah, maybe.” Barney sighs, and flips open his planner. He’s got to slow down. Bailey… he’s not going anywhere. “Lemme talk to Charlene. Make sure I can take the time off. Are you okay with me doing that?”

“I know you, Barn. You’re going to eat your heart out over this if you stay home,” Paul observes wryly. “If you go out there, get eyes on him, see that he’s okay… I don’t know. Maybe that’ll be better, maybe it’ll be worse. But I’m not going to be the one to tell you not to go.”

Barney rolls his eyes. “That’s not an answer.”

Paul huffs. “Talk to your boss. If you can go, and you want to go, then go.”

“Okay. Okay,” Barney says. Then he adds a rare, “I love you.”

“That’s twenty-six since Vegas,” Paul replies warmly. “Call me back when you have your plan figured out.”

*

Charlene approves his time-off request. Paul packs a suitcase for him while he’s at work, and at six that evening Barney leaves for the Midwest to stalk the hospital room of a nephew he’s never met.

After a cross-country flight and a two-hour layover in Chicago, Barney doesn’t make it into Louisville until after midnight, long after hospital visiting hours have ended. He gets a room at a nearby hotel, and keeps up the same internal argument he’s been having with himself all day. Why is he doing this? Why is he dropping everything to check on a child that isn’t his, that he hasn’t seen in nearly sixteen years, that belongs to a family that doesn’t know Clint, doesn’t know Jackie, and doesn’t know Barney?

What could he possibly say to them? If Bailey is in danger, would they want him to call Clint? And what would Clint do?

*

Friday, June 4, 2004

*

Barney manages a few hours of fractured sleep, full of dreams where Clint bursts into Bailey’s hospital room and throws Barney out, shouting, _You don’t belong here, you don’t deserve to be here, get out._

He wakes up and showers, scrubbing at his face to clear away the tear tracks he’d awoken with. He’s got to keep it together. He’s got to make sure Bailey is okay. It’s what Clint would want. It’s what Jackie would want.

It’s what _he_ wants.

Dressed in a button-down and slacks, Barney heads over to the hospital and the PICU. He makes his way inside and walks past room 210C at an amble, just slow enough to get a good solid look inside out of the corner of his eye, but not so slow as to arouse suspicion.

Bailey is on a ventilator and an IV, with monitors attached to his chest through wires leading under his hospital gown. His eyes are closed. A dark-haired woman is sitting next to him, holding his hand as she watches him breathe. Neither of them move.

Barney walks on, turns a corner, and leans against the wall for just a breath, just a moment, letting something else support him as he tries to take in enough air. It’s one thing to read about it in the paper, his nephew being hurt, knowing intellectually that it’s bad. But it’s another thing entirely to see it in person, to see him sedated and intubated and hurting. He wants to marvel at how that tiny baby he once held in his arms grew into a tall, strong teenager, wants to look for every hint of Clint and Jackie in his features and build and voice and manner. But all he can see is gauze and machines.

It’s too close. It’s too much like Clint; Bailey _looks_ too much like Clint. Barney reminds himself that this is different: Bailey’s getting the best care possible, he hasn’t been shot, he’s got a family by his side...he’ll be okay. If he recovers, he’ll be taken home and taken care of by people who know him, people who love him. That will make all the difference, Barney knows.

Further down the hall, the waiting room for the pediatric intensive care unit is full; at least four different families are milling about inside, talking in low voices, reading, and pacing as they wait. It takes Barney a minute to figure out which group belongs to Bailey, but he zeroes in on a Hispanic woman in her late forties seated next to a man around seventy. They look close enough alike to be father and daughter. These must be Caroline and Jose Lucio Ramirez. Which means the woman in with Bailey is Gabriela Ramon.

Barney takes an open seat nearby and opens up a magazine, settling in to wait.

He doesn’t introduce himself to the Ramirez family. It’s not his place. They’ve got enough to worry about, with their teenage son badly hurt and the police still searching for the driver of the car that hit him. A random birth relative bursting into the room, knowing names and details they shouldn’t? Possibly challenging them on every terrible medical decision they need to make? Criticizing their family itself – two moms and an immigrant grandfather – or even trying to find a racist, homophobic judge that will take away their parental rights?

Just showing up could bring all their worst fears to the foreground. They shouldn’t have to deal with that right now.

Instead of approaching them, Barney eavesdrops.

From what he can gather, Bailey has a concussion, broken ribs, and bruised lungs from the collision with the hit-and-run driver. It’s the latter that’s the biggest concern; the doctors are keeping him sedated until the trauma has healed enough that they can safely remove the ventilator.

It seems every time they try to remove it, Bailey’s vitals tank. So now, it’s a waiting game, until he’s stable enough to breathe on his own. With the hope that he doesn’t develop an infection in the meantime.

Barney reads his magazine and keeps to himself as he watches Bailey’s mothers and grandfather take turns sitting at his bedside, an hour at a time. He watches them hold hands, give quiet updates as they tag each other in, bring back coffee and water and food from the cafeteria, and just...be there for each other. As a family. As they should.

He’d hated watching Jackie give Bailey up, hated that he had no say in the matter, that as far as he knew Clint was _dead_ and that Clint’s dreams of the four of them being a family together had apparently died with him.

And then weeks later, finding out that Clint had lived… But it was too late. Jackie was gone, Bailey was gone, and then Barney left Clint alone with nothing. He wishes he’d made different choices, now, every step of the way. The regret claws at him, clawing at his stomach and making it hard to breathe as he sits there in the waiting room, two rows down from the Ramirez family.

At the end of the day, Barney goes back to the hotel. He flops on the bed and sinks down into the pillows, exhausted from a day where he did nothing but sit and watch and listen. His hand drifts automatically to the phone on the nightstand, and he dials the house number without looking.

Paul picks up immediately and listens quietly as he recounts his day, then asks, “Have you eaten anything today, babe?”

“I had a Snickers bar earlier,” Barney admits, staring at the empty pillow beside him, wishing Paul were there. Paul makes even the most difficult situations seem easier, better. “Was too anxious to eat anything else.”

Paul sighs. “I know it’s got to be weird being there. But you need to eat.”

“I know, I know.” Barney closes his eyes and leans back against the hotel bed’s headboard. “Do you think I’m stupid for coming out here?”

“I think you’re Barney. I think you’re always going to jump to help somebody you love. I don’t think that’s stupid at all.” Paul’s voice is kind. “I think it might help if you figured out why you’re _really_ there.”

“I don't… I don't see how I… I haven't seen this kid since the day after he was born,” Barney says quietly. “He doesn’t even know that I exist. I don't...I don’t know.”

“He’s Clint’s son,” Paul reminds him, as if that’s sufficient to explain it – this fierce urge to watch over Bailey’s hospital room, to run background checks on every doctor, nurse, aide and orderly who comes near him, to protect him from any more hurt. He’s not _actually_ doing anything useful here, and if the family discovers him, his presence will probably just make everything ten times worse. But still… He can’t imagine leaving before knowing if Bailey is going to be okay. It makes him sick to think it.

Barney lets out a deep breath and glances out the window to the glowing neon lights outside. Paul’s right. He needs to eat.  “There’s an Applebee’s next door to the hotel.”

“Then I guess you know what you need to do,” Paul replies warmly. “Call me before you go to bed, if you’re up to it. I’ll be here.”

*

Monday, June 7, 2004

*

Barney’s sitting in the hospital cafeteria, nursing his third cup of coffee, when the chair across from him is pulled away from the table, and Bailey’s grandfather seats himself with a quiet, “Good morning, Mr. Barton.”

Barney doesn’t drop his coffee mug, but he does twitch hard enough that tepid coffee spills onto his hand and the tabletop. He hastily puts the mug down and throws paper napkins on top of the spill, letting them take a moment to absorb the liquid as he tries to get a grip on himself. “How did you…?”

Mr. Ramirez levels him with a flat look that gives absolutely nothing away. In his soft Mexican accent, he says sternly, “You do not hide your interest so well.”

Barney winces; he thought he’d been circumspect enough. Apparently not. He dabs his hand with another napkin. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to bother you. I just wanted to make sure Bailey was okay.”

“Is that all you want, Mr. Barton?” Ramirez asks.

Barney blinks in confusion. “I… What else is there?”

“Maybe you want to talk to him?” Mr. Ramirez asks, frown getting deeper by the second. How he can loom threateningly from across the table – when he’s seventy years old and barely five and a half feet tall – is a mystery. But it’s effective. “Maybe you make him promises, and then take him away from us?”

“What?” Barney gapes. “No, I wouldn’t–”

Ramirez cuts him off with a wave of his hand. “You tell the court, ‘I’m his father, I have rights, I have more rights than these two ladies who let him be hit by a car.’ And then off you go with him.”

“Wait,” Barney says, realization suddenly hitting him like a bullet to the chest; his sternum aches at the thought. “I think you’ve got it wrong. I’m not Bailey’s father.”

It’s the other man’s turn to blink. “I see his face in your face. Who are you, then?”

Barney shakes his head. “I guess I’m...I’m his uncle. His father was my brother.”

“And where is he now? Waiting in the car with the motor running?” Ramirez demands.

“No, I… we’re not in contact. He doesn’t, as far as I know, he doesn’t know where Bailey is.” He takes a breath and tries hard to pull himself together, to explain. “I know how this looks bad. But I’m really just here to make sure Bailey’s okay. I saw his picture in the paper and I just, I had to come. I wasn’t going to do anything, say anything.”

Ramirez doesn’t look convinced in the least. He just stares at him with that flat frown and cutting gaze. “You look like you could be his father.”

“I’m gay,” Barney says, poking at the mess of napkins on the table and making it even worse. Just because Ramirez has a lesbian daughter doesn’t necessarily mean he’s going to be accepting of Barney. “I’m not anybody’s father, and I’m not interested in becoming one.”

The frown eases, just a bit, and the gaze shifts from a laser to a searchlight when Barney looks back up. “But you are an uncle.”

Barney lifts one shoulder in a shrug. “I was, I guess. For a little while.”

Ramirez hums in thought. “And you say that the father is not here, that you are not in contact with the father.”

“I… No. There was a falling out, I guess, and we lost track of each other. It was years ago,” Barney admits, hesitant to go into the dirty details right now. At the end of this conversation, Ramirez is probably going to demand Barney get lost. Confessing to the specifics of why Clint hates him isn’t going to make that blow any softer. “Look, I really didn’t mean to be disruptive, to, to bother you, to bother Bailey...”

“Then why are you here?

Barney scratches the back of his head like an idiot, only catching the gesture after he’s already in the middle of it. Paul’s been asking him the same question. _He’s_ been asking himself the same question. Right now, the best answer he can come up with is, “I came here ‘cause... he’s hurt and I couldn’t _not_ come. I don’t got, I don’t have no plan beyond making sure he wakes up.”

He reaches for more napkins and starts wiping at the mess in front of him. He’ll clean this up, and then he’ll go back to the hotel and pack. It was ridiculous of him to think he could do anything by flying out here, that his presence would do anything other than make everything worse.

“And the anxiety, this is a Barton family trait?” Ramirez asks out of the blue.

Barney freezes, hands full of wet paper. “What?”

“Sometimes my grandson, he gets scared,” Ramirez explains, and the tone of his voice has eased into something much closer to what Barney’s overheard in the past few days. “Overwhelmed. Shaky. His chest, it hurts, and he says it is like the whole world goes away sometimes.“

Ah. The Barton Family Panic Attacks, that’s what he’s describing. Barney sets the napkins down and says, “Yeah, that's… My brother had those a lot as a kid. Me, too, sometimes, I guess.”

Ramirez nods. “They are difficult for him.”

“Yeah,” Barney whispers, staring blankly down at the pile of soiled napkins. The rest of the table is clean and dry, now.

“What did you do for him? Your brother, when he had them?”

Barney flinches at the memories, welling up in his mind unbidden. Some days – the bad days – Dad would hit Clint for no reason, hit him until he cried. Then he’d beat him as punishment for crying. Even in the foster homes later on, there always seemed to be trouble if Clint got upset, if he got caught mid-panic and couldn’t quiet down.

So Barney’d learned to put Clint to bed, to pile blankets on top of him to muffle the noise and find some way to distract the adults in the house, keep them from investigating the whimpers. If that meant he got his own self beat...he didn’t care, so long as Clint was safe.

By the time they left for the circus, Clint was able to swallow the panic down and keep it all bottled up tight. You’d never know that inside he was screaming.

“I wasn’t–” Barney’s voice catches, and he coughs. He feels blindsided, and yes, shaky and overwhelmed. “I wasn’t very good at comforting him, when we were kids. But I would, um, I would try to make sure he was somewhere safe, made sure people left him alone ‘till he could pull out of it.”

“The doctors, they are going to try to remove the tube again tomorrow,” Ramirez says. “They think it is the panic that makes it so hard.”

“It hurts, and he starts to freak out, and then they have to stop?” Barney surmises, following the logic.

Ramirez points a finger at him and says, “Yes, just like that.”

Barney shakes his head. He couldn’t comfort Clint as a child, and he knew everything there was to know about his brother. He doesn’t know anything about Bailey at all – what help could he ever offer?

“Well,” Ramirez says with some finality. He pushes his chair from the table and stands. “They will try again tomorrow, anyway.”

Ramirez reaches out his right hand, and it takes Barney a moment to realize what’s happening. They shake hands, eyes meeting and staying locked until Ramirez nods, looking satisfied, and lets go. “You stay in here from now on. You leave the waiting room alone. I come find you tomorrow, tell you how it goes with the tube.”

He’s not kicking Barney out. He’s letting him stay, keeping him updated. It’s a gift Barney doesn’t deserve, but he’ll take it.

“Tomorrow,” he agrees.

With a final nod, Ramirez turns and walks away.

Barney throws out the dirty napkins, and heads back to the line for another cup of coffee.

*

Tuesday, June 8, 2004

*

The good thing about being exiled to the cafeteria is that Barney never gets the opportunity to forget to eat. He manages a bowl of oatmeal for breakfast, and then a ham-and-cheese sandwich for lunch, looking forward to reporting back to Paul that he’s taking care of himself appropriately.

He’s nursing a cold cup of coffee just after two o’clock when Ramirez comes to find him again. He settles into the chair across from Barney with a heavy sigh, coffee in-hand, and Barney can already tell what happened. “Tube couldn’t come out?”

“The tube did not come out,” Ramirez confirms, worry and frustration coloring his tone. “The doctors, they say his lungs are still so bruised, it is okay if the tube stays in another day. They will try again tomorrow.”

“I’m sorry,” Barney says, fiddling with his ring nervously. Staying on the ventilator means Bailey stays sedated, means he can’t speak up and say what he needs, say that he’s okay. And the longer he’s on the vent, the more likely an infection will creep along the tubes into his damaged lungs, putting him in even more danger.

“Esta cañón. Tomorrow, we will see.” He sips his coffee. “You been in this room all day?”

Barney nods, and Ramirez lets out a small smile. “Good, good. You listen, that’s good.”

“I try,” Barney says, and the smile on the other man’s face gets a touch wider.

“So. Mr. Barton, uncle of my grandson. You tell me about yourself.” Ramirez takes another drink out of his mug and leans forward, all ears.

“What do you want to know?” Barney asks, playing for time as he wonders what the hell to tell this man. Two years from now, Bailey’s going to be able to open his adoption records and start searching for Clint. Barney doesn’t want to say anything, do anything, that will jeopardize that. Clint has a right to his son.  

“You do not live in Louisville,” Ramirez observes.

“No, I’m in San Diego.”

“San Diego!” Ramirez chuckles, amusement transforming his features and filling up the laugh lines in his face. “That is too funny. That is where I crossed the border, when I first came here to work. But that was 1951. I am sure now, it is much different.”

“Probably,” Barney agrees. “It’s a little bigger now.”

“Ah. You have a job in San Diego?”

“Yeah, I… I work for the government. I’m a forensic accountant.” At the other man’s questioning look, Barney clarifies, “I go through financial records to figure out where businesses are stealing money or committing crimes.”

“I see. A smart man.” Ramirez gestures with his mug to Barney’s hands, where he’s back to that nervous tic he’s developed since the day Paul put the ring on his finger. “And you have, what, a partner?”

He stills his hands. “Yeah. Paul. Been together since ‘93. Got a Domestic Partnership soon as it was legal.”

“Ah,” Ramirez says. Another sip of coffee. Then, “You know, my girls, they meet in school in the fourth grade, and they are the best of friends, inseparable. And then in tenth grade, they say no, maybe they are not best friends, maybe they are something else. ‘What do you mean, something else?’ I ask them. ‘What else is there?’”

Barney winces in sympathy for Bailey’s moms, and hopes they found someone like Josh to guide them.

Ramirez shrugs. “My wife, she says, ‘You don’t understand. That’s okay, you do not understand. But do you want two daughters, or no daughters? Those are your choices.’ So I say, ‘Okay, I have two daughters now.’ And Gabriela, she come live with us. Her parents, they chose no daughters.”

“Your wife sounds like a smart lady,” Barney says.

“The smartest,” he replies warmly. “She go to heaven two years after that.”

“I’m sorry to hear that.”

He brushes the condolences aside, seemingly with practice. “It’s okay. I still have my girls. They go to college, they get good jobs, they buy a house. Then they bring home this tiny baby. Six pounds–”

“–Five ounces,” Barney finishes, voice suddenly wet. “Eighteen and a half inches.”

Ramirez stares at him for a moment. “You were there when he was born?”

Barney nods, trying to keep his breaths even. “I got to hold him, for a little while.”

Leaning forward, Ramirez meets Barneys eyes and says, voice low and intent, “Was he not the most perfect of babies?”

A laugh escapes Barney unbidden, and a few tears leak out in its wake. “The cutest.”

“And so tiny!”

“He really was,” Barney admits, still chuckling as he wipes his eyes with a napkin. “This tiny little thing, a perfect combination of his mom and dad. I remember thinking, ‘Oh god, I’m in so much trouble.’”

Another tear; he brushes it away. At the time, he’d thought Bailey was all he had left in the world of his brother. In a way, he might still be. He doesn’t know anymore.

“But you did not take him, instead of the state,” Ramirez states, pointing out the obvious like it’s anything but.

He shakes his head. “No. His mom...his mom made her decision. She was only sixteen, just a kid, and my brother...my brother….”

Ramirez looks at him patiently, expectantly, but doesn’t push. Barney takes a few deep breaths and says, “You gotta understand, Bailey was _wanted_. My brother wanted to keep him from the beginning, wanted the three of them to be a family together. It was all he ever wanted.”

“What changed his mind?” Ramirez asks quietly.

“He _didn’t_ change his mind,” Barney insists. “He _never_ changed his mind about it, never, he just couldn’t…. About, about three weeks before Bailey was born, there was, something happened, and someone, someone shot him.”

Ramirez’s lips press tightly together, at that, but doesn’t say anything.

Barney goes on with the story, desperate to make sure Ramirez understands where the fault lies: with Barney. Never with Clint. He needs to know this about Clint, if Bailey ever decides to make contact. “We thought he’d been killed. We freaked out and left town. We didn’t know he’d been taken to the hospital. By the time he woke up and was able to track me down... Bailey’d already been born, and it was, he’d already been placed with your family…”

He looks away. Grabs another napkin to wipe his face with. Finally says, “You gotta understand, at the time, given what we knew… We thought he was dead. We were heartbroken. Bailey’s mom was heartbroken. She and my brother, they loved each other so much.”

He thinks of Jackie’s face when she told him her decision, how he’d lashed out at her and made her cry, because he was such a fucking asshole… because he was dying inside, same as she was. “She thought, she figured the baby’d have a better chance with...with a different family. One that wasn’t broken apart and, and bleeding out.”

He looks up at Ramirez. “She was hurting so bad, but she was still trying to do the right thing for Bailey. How could I argue with her about it?”

“There is no arguing with a mother who has made up her mind, I think,” Ramirez says gently, giving Barney time to wipe his eyes again. He and Jackie never really got along, but in this moment, sharing these memories… God, he misses her.

“Sixteen years ago, I am living alone, I am okay,” Ramirez says. “And then my girls, they bring home this tiny baby. They say, ‘Papa, come stay with us. Help with the baby.’ I do not want to leave my apartment, but somehow I still say, ‘Oh, okay. For the baby.’ There was no arguing.”

“You moved in and never left?” Barney asks, smiling at the thought.

Ramirez shakes his head and smiles back. “Never.”

Barney nods. Fiddles with his ring some more and wishes Paul were here. Says, “I’m glad.“

*

Wednesday, June 9, 2004

*

“My girls, they never hide from Bailey that he is adopted,” Ramirez says over his afternoon coffee. “He knows, when he is eighteen, he can open the envelope and learn what’s inside, if he wants.”

“Does he want to open it?” Barney asks.

Ramirez sips his coffee and sighs. “He is fifteen. Every week, he changes his mind. ‘Yes, I want to know everything,’ he says, and then he says, ‘No, what if it is awful? What if they still do not want me? Will my mothers think I don’t love them if I open it?’ So many worries, he has.”

Barney shakes his head. “I don’t know what’s written in there. I don’t know what his, what his birth mom will want. But his dad… I haven’t seen him in a long time, but I can’t imagine him not wanting to meet his son.”

“Is he a good man, your brother?”

“Yes,” Barney says immediately. “Yes, he’s a good man.”

It’s been sixteen years since Barney has spoken to Clint. But the kid he knew, the kid he raised, he was _good._ He was always going to grow into a good man, no matter what life – Trick, Dad, Barney – threw his way. He doesn’t doubt it, not for a moment.

Ramirez frowns. “Then why are you not talking to him?”

Barney’s stomach drops, and he blurts, “Because I’m not a good man.”

Ramirez scoffs, loud enough that the people at the next table over raise their heads to look at him. Not that he cares. “You fly two thousand miles to see my grandson, and when I tell you to stay in the cafeteria, you stay in the cafeteria. Maybe you are not the smartest man, but you are a good man.”

Barney’s face burns at the regard, the acknowledgement, and resists the impulse to squirm awkwardly in his seat like a kid getting praise he doesn’t deserve. “I don’t know about that. But. My brother, my brother has good reasons not to talk to me, and that’s my fault. Don’t judge him for it – he deserves to meet his son someday, if that’s what Bailey wants.”

Ramirez gives him a long, piercing look. “And if he wants to meet his uncle?”

“Let him meet his dad, first,” Barney says.

“Why must–”

“Please,” Barney interrupts. He thinks of Paul’s family, all of the people who were forced to choose one side or the other, who were hurt by someone else’s choices. “Please, what went on between me and my brother, that was my fault, it’s on me. I can’t...I can’t put Bailey in a spot where he has to choose between me and his dad. And that’s what’s gonna happen if I meet him first. He has to, he _has_ _to_ choose his dad.”

“You are so sure of this?”

 _“Yes,”_ Barney insists. “He deserves a chance. To be a dad, or a friend, or whatever Bailey wants him to be. He’ll be good at it.”

Ramirez is quiet for a long, long time. Then finally, he says, “All right.”

“Thank you,” Barney sighs.

*

Thursday, June 10, 2004

*

After eight days in the ICU, eight days on the ventilator and sedated, Bailey finally lets the doctors take out the tube. After eight days of uncertainty, he finally wakes up.

Barney finds out hours later, in the early afternoon. Ramirez bursts into the cafeteria, lightness in his step and in his eyes and in his face, and it’s enough to make the dread lift from Barney’s chest before a single word is spoken.

“I’m going to head home, then,” Barney says, before Ramirez can cajole him into a visit, steamroll all of his careful plans. “I’m glad he’s going to be okay.”

“Okay, okay, you go home if you want,” Ramirez says, friendly as can be. “But first, you buy my silence.”

“Excuse me?”

Ramirez pulls one of those indestructible Nokia cell phones from his pocket and hands it to him. “Your phone number. To update you. So you do not have to fly cross-country when the paper reports he skinned his knee, you know?”

Barney frowns at the unexpected request, and Ramirez adds, “No fake numbers! I will know.”

Well. It could be worse. He could have been kicked out days ago. Barney takes the phone carefully, opens up the contacts list and adds his name and phone number. He pauses for a moment, and then adds the number to his pager as well, before handing the phone back. “We good?”

“Very good,” Ramirez agrees. He hands Barney a folded-up piece of paper, and Barney doesn’t have to open it to know what’s written on it.

Barney reaches out to shake his hand. “Thank you, Mr. Ramirez.”

“Thank _you_ , Barney,” Ramirez replies, grip firm in the handshake. “You may call me Lou.”

*

Barney spends the flight home deep in thought, barely noticing each takeoff and landing. This whole week – flying out to Louisville in a panic, lurking in the hospital, trying to make a good impression on Lou Ramirez – has been centered around making sure Bailey was going to be okay. But...the person Barney couldn’t stop thinking about, couldn’t stop talking about, was Clint.

Maybe Barney’s extreme reactions this week didn’t have as much to do with Bailey as he’d thought. Maybe every jolt of fear, every surge of panic, every skip of his heart was inextricably tied to a different city, a different hospital, a different patient. One he couldn’t do anything for, either.

*

Paul’s waiting for him at the airport, standing right at the bottom of the escalator leading from the arrivals area. Barney walks over to him, stops right in front of him, and says, “I figured it out.”

“Oh?” Paul asks, raising one eyebrow and quirking his lips.

Barney nods. “I feel like it was my fault Clint was hurt and lost his chance to keep Bailey. So when Bailey was hurt – it was like it was my chance to go back and fix it. To be there for Bailey the way I wasn’t there for Clint.”

Paul doesn’t smile, not quite, but pride shines out of his eyes like a beacon as he nods and says, “You wanted to protect him.”

Feeling abashed, Barney shifts his gaze to look down at Paul’s knees. Because he’s been working on these reactions, these over-the-top protective impulses, for years now. To have them rear up again, when he thought he’d been doing so well, is beyond frustrating.

“I thought I’d gotten better at that,” he confesses. “Not so much, I guess.”

“Oh, you have,” Paul says, looping an arm around Barney’s waist and leading him gently toward the exit. “What was the first thing you did when you read the article in the paper?”

“Called the hospital. Then called you and woke you up.”

“Yeah,” Paul says. “You didn’t just up and leave. You looped me in. You talked about it. You asked me to be a part of the decision.”

“I didn’t...I didn’t think to do anything else,” Barney says slowly, heart lightening and shame easing. “I couldn’t _not_ call you, not for something as big as this.”

They pass through the automatic doors and into the outside air. Barney smells salt on the breeze for the first time in a week, and feels his shoulders loosen. He’s home. Paul’s arm is around him, and he’s home.

“Yeah, babe,” Paul is saying. “You’re doing fine. I promise.”

“Okay,” Barney says. He takes another deep breath of ocean air. “Okay. Good.”

They walk to the car hand-in-hand. Paul gets behind the wheel and says, “I gave Beatriz my shift tonight. You want to get some dinner or go straight home?”

“I’ve had nothing but hospital cafeteria food all week,” Barney admits. “Please take me somewhere with a shit-ton of pho.”

Paul laughs, delighted. “I can do that.”

Barney watches him as he drives them out of the short-term parking lot and onto the main road. Waits until they’re stopped at a red light, and adds, “And then blow jobs after?”

Paul snorts, then grins. “I might be convinced.”

“It’s good to be home,” Barney sighs, relaxing back into the bucket seat and closing his eyes. Paul rolls down the window for him, and drives on.

*

Saturday, December 25, 2004

*

Barney’s pager beeps in the late afternoon, after the presents have been opened and Paul’s nieces have descended upon Carlo and Nellie’s house in all their pre-teen glory. The screen lights up with an unfamiliar number, one with a 502 area code. It buzzes again almost immediately with another set of numbers: 07231988.

That’s Bailey’s birthdate.

Barney excuses himself from the cacophony – one of the girls received a DVD of the infamous Clay Aiken for Christmas and has it playing full-blast on the living room TV – and shuts himself in the master bedroom to use the extension there.

Regina, the youngest of the three nieces, follows him closely. When he sits down at the edge of the bed, she joins him by taking a flying leap and face-planting into the center of the mattress. She giggles, sits up, and asks, “Whatcha doin’, Uncle Barney?”

“My beeper went off, see?” He shows her the pager and flips through the numbers on the display. She oohs dramatically, already in love with technology at age ten. “I carry it with me, and if some wants to get in contact with me, they call my beeper number, and then they can dial in the number where they want me to call them back.”

“That one’s not a phone number, though,” Regina says, expertly manipulating the display so that it reverts back to Bailey’s birth date. “It’s eight numbers, and area codes can’t start with zero.”

“Good catch,” Barney says. God, kids today are smart as hell. “People can put in any number they want in the display. So, if you were paging me, you might put your birthday so that I knew it was you.”

Regina bounces on her knees, making the tulle in her skirt flap around wildly. “June 17, 1994! Mom was mad because she missed the OJ Simpson car chase!”

“You’re much more fun than a car chase, Munchkin,” Barney says, and Regina beams.

“I know!” she chirps. “So, are you gonna call? The number on the beeper?”

Barney nods. “I need some privacy, though. Do you think you could go out and make sure no one bothers me while I’m on the phone?”

“Yep!” She scooches on her bottom to the edge of the bed and then jumps down with an unusually-loud thump. She runs to the door, opens it, and then stops to say, “I know you’re just trying to get rid of me, Uncle Barney.”

“I know you know,” he replies, fighting back a smile.

“I know you know I know,” she says, and then steps through the doorway. “Have a good phone call!”

Shaking his head, Barney gets up and closes the door again. He sits back down, takes a deep breath, and dials the number on the screen.

The phone rings, and then someone answers, but it’s not Lou. It’s the voice of a young man, a young man that sounds an awful lot like Clint did – like Clint would have, if Clint were ever well-fed and happy on Christmas Day.

“Merry Christmas!” Bailey says brightly.

“Uh,” Barney replies. “Merry Christmas to you, too. Is Lou there?”

“Just a second,” Bailey says. Then it’s the sound of him setting the receiver down his voice, further away this time, shouting, “Abuelo! Phone!”

After a moment, the phone is picked back up, and Lou says, “Hello?”

“It’s Barney. Barney Barton. I got your page?”

“Hello! Merry Christmas!” Lou says, voice as bright as his grandson’s. “You did not pick up the phone at the other number. I thought, maybe he is out of town, maybe I try the beeper. That was okay, yes? It worked okay?”

“Yeah, yeah, it worked fine,” Barney replies, still bemused. “I’m in Pittsburgh, is all. Um. Is everything okay? Why…”

Lou laughs. “It is Christmas! That is when we call family to catch up, yes?”

Barney’s breath catches. Family…? “Oh. Okay. Um. How’s Bailey doing? He sounded good. Is he, is he all...recovered?”

“Yes, yes, all better,” Lou says easily. “Well, mostly. He stayed in the hospital another week after you left. Then his concussion heals up, then his lungs heal up, and then the last are his ribs.”

His ribcage had been crushed, Barney remembers. Nearly every rib cracked or broken in the collision with the hit-and-run driver. “Did you ever track down the guy who hit him?”

Lou snorts. “No, no, we never find him. No witnesses, and Bailey no remember anything from that day at all. We hope maybe they come forward, but who will admit to hitting a little boy and driving away?”

“Yeah,” Barney says, closing his eyes for a moment, thanking the universe that Bailey had been found almost immediately, that the paramedics had been so quick to arrive on the scene.

“But it’s okay,” Lou says genially. “We have Bailey back and he’s okay, so we don’t care so much about the rest.”

There’s a pause. Barney doesn’t know what kinds of questions he’s supposed to ask, here. How to show interest in his nephew’s life, to find out more about what “okay” means to him. He falls back on what he’s heard Paul ask his nieces about ten dozen times over the years. “And… and school? School’s okay?”

Lou keeps him on the phone for an hour, listing Bailey’s academic accomplishments (algebra II, chemistry), challenges (social studies), and passions (trumpet, marching band, the girl who sits behind him in English).  At the end, Lou says, “Next time, you hear this all from him directly, yes?”

“No,” Barney replies, flinching. “I told you… You haven’t– You didn’t–”

“No, no, I don’t tell him anything,” Lou says soothingly, apology in his tone. “I remember what you said. I don’t say anything to him or to my girls. But he is growing up fast. Maybe you are missing out, to wait so long.”

Barney drops his head, even though the other man can’t see him, and takes a breath. He thought he’d explained this summer. He thought Lou understood. “Not until he finds his dad, first.”

Lou hums his agreement. “Yes, yes, so you say. You don’t want to, what is it? Poison the well.”

“Yeah,” Barney sighs. “I don’t want to poison anything.”

“Maybe next Christmas, you change your mind.” Lou says it with such certainty. Barney doesn’t understand him at all.

When Lou finally lets him off the phone, Barney just sits for a moment, eyes closed, and centers himself. He never thought he’d ever hear from the Ramirez family, certainly never intended to be the one to reach out. Never thought he’d hear more about Bailey than what he can glean from the newspaper.

Lou seems to be pushing hard for Barney to step closer, to walk through the door he’s holding open (somewhat impatiently). But Bailey’s moms don’t know about Barney. They might have very different views on what Barney should be doing, and Lou hasn’t exactly been forthcoming on what those views might reasonably be.

Better to respect their boundaries for the next year and a half than to run roughshod all over them. He can afford to wait and discover for himself what Bailey wants, after he’s unsealed the records and found Clint again and gotten the full story.

In the meantime, though, it’s Christmas. Barney shakes his head at himself and stands up, heading for the bedroom door. Maybe he has to keep himself one step removed from Bailey. But for Britney, Courtney, and Regina, he’s a third uncle. So he’d better go back out to the living room and show it.

*

Monday, June 20, 2005

*

Barney makes it through another annual physical with Dr. Beth, Paul by his side as always. His viral load is still undetectable. His T-cell count is the highest it’s ever been. And at 36, he’s three years older than his father ever managed to be.

His cholesterol is a little high, and he’s tired of taking multiple pills every single day of his life, but all in all… He feels good.

At the end of the visit, Dr. Beth mentions, “You saw the new Domestic Partnership law went into effect this year, right?”

“The one where we get about 98% of full spousal rights without all the bother of actually being called spouses?” Paul asks wryly. “That law?”

Barney elbows him as Dr. Beth chuckles and says, “I take it you’ve done your research?”

“A little bit,” Barney replies, trying to head off a Paul Rant. “If one of us is in the hospital, the other _should_ be allowed to visit and make decisions, right? Have any of your patients had to test it out, yet?”

“So far, no one’s reported any problems,” Dr. Beth says. “A few of them are keeping a photocopy of their registration certificate in their wallet, just in case. You shouldn’t need to wave the paperwork around to get a hospital to accommodate you, but it can help smooth the way in case of a crisis.”

“We’ll keep that in mind,” Barney says, nodding. He has their certificate in their safe deposit box at the bank, and copies stored at home and at work. It’d be no trouble to stick a copy in his wallet and briefcase as well.

Later, at home, Paul turns the radio on and throws dinner together – spaghetti, tomato sauce, and some of the meatballs he made two weeks ago and froze by the dozen. As he’s stirring the sauce, moving with the music, Barney steps up behind him. He rests his hands gently on Paul’s hips, tucks his chin over his right shoulder, and sways with him, singing along quietly in his ear. _“We've got to hold on to what we've got. It doesn't make a difference if we make it or not…”_

Paul sets the wooden spoon down on the stove and turns, looping his arms around Barney’s neck and leaning into him. _“We've got each other and that's a lot for love. We'll give it a shot...”_

They don’t belt out the chorus. They just stop and look at each other for a long, long moment.

Then Paul smiles, and says, “Hey.”

“Hey,” Barney whispers back. “You come here often?”

Paul’s smile deepens, warm and indulgent. He steps back and shakes his head. “Nerd.”

Barney reels him back in and presses a kiss to his cheek, and thinks that there isn’t a single solitary thing about his life right now that he would change.

*

Saturday, December 24, 2005

*

Paul leads the way into Aunt Andi’s house for Christmas Eve Dinner and stops dead in his tracks in the middle of the doorway.

“Paul?” Barney asks, immediately on alert.

“Permission to get a move on?” Carlo asks from behind him, still out in the cold on the front porch, Nellie by his side.

“Come on in and close the door, I’m not paying to heat up the neighborhood!” Andi shouts from somewhere inside the house.

Paul shakes himself and steps the rest of the way inside, moving to the side to let the rest of them come in after him. Now able to see through the entryway to the whole living room, Barney understands what shocked Paul motionless: Uncle Giovanni is sitting on the couch. A young man with the same round face and broad shoulders – his son Joey from what Barney knows of the Costa family tree – is sitting next to him.

They shuck off their winter coats and hang them in the hall closet, and then Carlo steps forward first to greet his younger brother and nephew warmly. “Merry Christmas Gio, Joey, good to see you.”

The rest of them follow suit; Nellie throws in cheek kisses when she offers her Christmas greetings. Paul, however, is more tense, letting out a perfunctory, “Merry Christmas” and then escaping further into the house with a, “Gonna find where Andi hid the cookies.”

There’s a plate of decorated sugar cookies on the coffee table in front of Joey. Barney frowns at Paul’s transparent avoidance tactics, and sits down on the loveseat next to Nellie while Carlo and Gio start in on rehashing the last Steelers game.

Under the cover of the football discussion, Barney nods toward the men on the couch and murmurs, “This is new.”

“Andi invited them,” Nellie replies quietly. “We weren’t sure they’d come, or we would have warned you.”

“Warnings are always good either way,” Barney chides. She should have known how Paul was going to react; he’s not exactly a closed book when it comes to how he feels about the Costa Family dynamics.

Nellie sighs and pats his knee. “Next time.”

Paul comes back into the room, three glasses of pop balanced in his hands. He sets them down wordlessly in front of Barney, Carlo and Nellie, then retreats again.

Barney gets up and follows him this time, winding through the dining room and kitchen (where Andi is stirring something on the stove and cursing creatively), and out onto the enclosed back porch. It’s where Andi keeps the coolers of soda and extra tins of cookies, and while it’s colder than inside the house, it’s still warmer than the Pittsburgh winter outdoors.

“Hey,” Barney says, pulling the lid off a tin decorated with cartoon reindeer. There are snickerdoodles inside. He pulls two out and says, “You going to hide out here all night?”

“Depends. How long are they staying?” Paul asks. He’s standing in front of the window, arms crossed, staring out into the frozen backyard.

Barney steps up next to him, close enough to press their shoulders together. “You’re gonna get hypothermia and miss Christmas dinner just to avoid them?”

Paul shrugs, and Barney sighs. He understands why Paul’s upset – it’s mostly because he was blindsided seeing Gio again, seeing a cousin he’s maybe shared five words with his entire life. The Costa side of the family has always, always, always been a sore point for Paul.

But Barney also knows that hiding out on the back porch for the whole holiday isn’t the way to deal with that.

“Babe, you’re being...kind of an ass, here,” Barney points out gently, nudging Paul with his shoulder to take the bite out of the words.

Paul shoots him a sharp look. _“I’m_ being…?”

“Yeah,” Barney says with a shrug. “You are. Gio’s here and he’s trying. Your dad is giving him a chance. At least for your dad, could you try to meet him halfway? Consent to be in the same room as him?”

Paul scrubs his face with his hands, and then drops them back loosely down to his sides. “I hate it when you throw my advice back at me.”

Barney nudges him again. “Yeah, I know. Sorry.”

“No, I should be sorry. I’m the one being a jerk.” He pries open another tin and reaches in, pulling out a handful of what looks like rum balls. “Alright. I’m fortified with provisions. Let’s go.”

Before he can take more than a single step, Barney reaches out a hand to stop him. Then he steps forward into Paul’s space, meets his eyes calmly, and murmurs, “Love you.”

Paul flushes with pleasure and kisses him none-too-softly on the lips, lingering there for long moments. He pulls back a hair’s breadth and whispers, “Thirty-one.”

Barney can’t say it often. Can’t say it every day or every week, but sometimes...sometimes when the moment is right and the pressure is low, he can let it slip out. Paul keeps a running count.

They kiss again, and only pull apart at the sound of the door opening. Together, they turn and watch as Joey steps into the porch and closes the door behind him.

“Hey,” Joey says, somewhat shyly, shoulders hunched forward and hands clasped in front of him. He doesn’t look like he came out here for cookies.

“Hey,” Paul replies, stiff in Barney’s arms. He steps away, like he’s aiming to circle around his cousin and scurry back inside.

“Could we...talk for a minute?” Joey asks, voice hesitant and shoulders curved inward. He’s shorter than both Paul and Barney, and looking at him from the far side of 35, Barney can’t help but think of him as terribly young.

“Why?” Paul asks shortly.

Joey looks down, glances up at Paul’s face for a half a moment, and then looks away again before saying, “Look, I, um… All the stuff that happened in the family back in the day, it wasn’t our fault, and I don’t think, I don’t think us cousins should let it go on, you know? Like, do you think we can let it be in the past and start fresh?”

“Just act like it doesn’t matter? Like it didn’t happen?” Paul asks sharply. He’s stopped edging toward the door and is staring his cousin down. “The last time we saw each other, you called me a faggot to my face.”

“Yeah, I did,” Joey admits. That’s when he looks up and meets Paul’s eyes, not looking away as he says, “Grandpa was really proud of me for that. It took me a long time to realize that's why I said it.”

Paul snorts. “Good for you.”

Joey shakes his head. “It really wasn’t. I think...I think I knew even then, it was safer than the alternative.”

“What do you mean?” Paul asks, still annoyed.

Joey opens his mouth and closes it again, suddenly indecisive and, yes, scared. He glances from Paul, to Barney, to the kitchen door, and back to Paul again.

In a flash, Barney understands. He steps up to the kitchen door and looks through the window. There’s movement deeper in the house, and the shifting of light and shadows as the family watches TV in the living room, but the immediate area is empty. He turns back to Paul and Joey, and nods.

Paul, it seems, also gets it. He drops the attitude. His brow furrows, and he asks, “I thought you only dated women?”

“I only ever have,” Joey admits, color rising high on his cheeks. “And I do. I mean, I like them. But...there’s been a couple, a couple guys I might’ve wanted to. You know, if things were different.”

“If your family was different,” Paul adds. His posture has loosened considerably, and he’s staring at Joey with a thoughtful look on his face. “And you, you’re the baby of the bunch. You’re the favorite.”

“Being the favorite isn’t all it’s cracked up to be,” Joey responds, shoulders tight. Barney thinks about the price Joey must have paid over the years to stay in his grandparents’ good graces. Lashing out at Paul to take the focus off himself. Never being able to actually date a man he likes for fear of being discovered. Probably doubting himself, his sexuality, every day of his life. “I’m sorry for what I said. I was fifteen, and dumb.”

Paul looks at him for a long moment, chewing on his bottom lip as he does so. Finally, he says, “From what I’ve seen with my bisexual friends, it seems like you guys get the worst of both worlds. Too gay for some people, not gay enough for other people. And nowhere that feels like you belong.”

Joey makes a pained noise, eyes widening. He glances at the kitchen door again, checking for witnesses. Then he nods, and his voice is a little rough when he says, “Yeah. That’s...that’s what it’s like. Don’t… I haven’t told anyone in the family, they wouldn’t–”

“Yeah, I know,” Paul says gently. “I’m not going to out you. I’m not an asshole.”

“Thanks,” Joey replies quietly, looking a little more at ease.

Paul sighs. “So, you were saying about the cousins?”

“I just… We haven’t ever gotten to know each other, because of what happened,” Joey explains. “It’s not right what some people did, and I don’t think we should have to go along with it now that we’re all grown up. It’s… I’m not saying we could fix it, but we could stop it from continuing.”

His answer settles something in Paul; he at least shows more interest when he asks, “What do the others think?”

Joey scratches the back of his head awkwardly. “Vinnie’s on board, obviously. My sisters are open to it. I don’t...I don’t know about Nick and Pete, though. Haven’t seen them in a while. But I mean– we could at least try?”

Paul sighs, and glances at Barney for reassurance. Barney nods at him, because yes – Joey reaching out is a good thing. Joey trying to bridge the gap created by their parents and grandparents is a good thing. Paul no longer having to walk around feeling rejected by half his family is a good thing.

And even if it doesn’t work out, even if the rest of the cousins are still on board with the split… It looks like Joey might want to stick around. And that’s something to be hopeful about.

“All right,” Paul says. “I’ll talk with Julie and Neil. Maybe we can all get drinks together or something.”

“Great!” Joey says, face lighting up. “I know a place that’ll work.”

Paul smiles at Joey – possibly for the first time in their lives. “Call me and let me know where and when, and I’ll be there.”

*

Sunday, December 25, 2005

*

In the morning, Julie waves a hand breezily and says, “I’ve put that all behind me, Paul. I don’t want to dig into it again.”

Later, Neil frowns at the invitation, and says, “You know when Nicolas was born, the Costas put out a big announcement in the Trib about their ‘first grandchild’? Julie won’t admit it, but that killed her, a little bit. I remember her crying about it. She was eight.”

“I’m not surprised they don’t want to go,” Paul says to Barney when they’re alone again. “My baggage is nothing compared to theirs. They have kids, after all.”

“Do you still want to go?” Barney asks.

“No,” Paul replies. Then he shrugs. “But I’ve gotta give Joey a chance. So, I guess I’m going.”

*

Paul gets home late, several hours after his parents went to bed and Barney retired to the bedroom to read. He strips quietly in the glow of the bedside lamp and crawls under the covers to press the full length of his body against Barney’s.

“You’re cold,” Barney says, putting his book down and turning to wrap his arms around Paul’s shoulders. “How did it go?”

Paul tucks his cold nose into Barney’s neck and says, “It was about what I expected. A lot of talk about family, moving forward, putting everything behind us. Joey talked the most.”

Of course he did. Barney wonders if this all isn’t just some strategy on Joey’s part to be able to access Paul without facing reprisal from the rest of the cousins. “Who else was there?”

“Besides Joey, there was his sister Angela, and then Uncle Matt’s younger son Peter. Oh, and Vinnie, too.”

“So, that’s…” Barney counts in his head. “Five of the nine total?”

“Yeah,” Paul nods.

“Not a bad turnout.” He’s honestly surprised it didn’t end up being just Joey, Vinnie and Paul.

“It was fine,” Paul says, snuggling in closer. “We found things to talk about. I heard some family stories from Sicily that I didn’t know.”

“So, you survived?” Barney asks, amused.

Paul snorts. “Yeah, we all survived. Exchanged phone numbers and emails, promised to keep in touch and get together again next time I’m in town.”

“You don’t seem too happy about that.”

“I don’t know, Barn, it’s just…” Warmer now, Paul rolls onto his back and stares up at the ceiling. “They’re all just so much younger. Their experience has been so much different from mine. When they mention the grandparents, it’s...they don’t have that resentment.”

Barney rolls onto his side to look at him. Reaches out with a free hand to rake his fingers through Paul’s hair. Offers, “Maybe it’s time you let that resentment go.”

Paul breathes out through his nose. “Maybe I _like_ my undercurrent of seething resentment.”

“It’s a very sexy undercurrent,” Barney agrees.

Paul kicks him.

He kicks back.

They tussle playfully, quietly, and eventually wind up with Paul flat on his back and Barney straddling his waist. Their hands are joined; Barney leans his weight forward, pressing Paul’s hands down onto the bed, and asks, “Where were we at? Thirty-something?”

“Thirty-one, yesterday,” Paul replies, and even in the low lamplight, the color it brings to his cheeks is visible. “Andi’s back porch, around four in the afternoon.”

Barney smiles, because he can’t not. “Good to know.”

He meets his lips to Paul’s, and then trails equally light, tender kisses across his jaw, to his ear, down his neck, across his collarbone. Paul shifts underneath him, tense muscles relaxing more and more with every press of mouth to skin. He moves lower down, finding pecs and ribs and abs, still holding Paul’s hands in his.

He moves, and the warm bedding slides down his back, exposing both of them to the cold air of the bedroom. Paul huffs, so Barney lets go of his hands to grab the comforter and pull it forward, over both of their heads, enveloping them both in dark, fluffy warmth.

“Now you can’t see,” Paul complains, just trying to be obstinate.

“Do I need to?” Barney asks. He lowers his head and unerringly finds Paul’s cock, pulling it into his mouth without hesitation.

“Oh.” He grabs Barney’s shoulders, clings, and sucks a breath in through his teeth. The sound is muffled inside their blanket cocoon. “Barney, oh! Oh! I’m not gonna...I’m not gonna last…”

Barney pulls off, replacing his mouth with his hand, stroking gently. He whispers, “Shh, just relax.”

“Me? Relax? _Today?”_ Paul asks, laughter in his voice. He tickles the back of Barney’s neck lightly.

Barney turns his head to nip at the pad of Paul’s thumb. “Relax, and just let yourself feel, okay?”

He lowers his head again. Makes his mouth wet and soft, and slowly slides Paul’s cock inside, until the tip reaches the back of his throat, and his lips are wrapped around the base. And then he stays there, and doesn’t move. Paul trembles for the first minute, and then slowly, incrementally, bit by bit, he relaxes his muscles, breathing long and deep as he lets the tension of the past two days ease out of him.

Then, and only then, does Barney move: sucks hard, swallows, strokes with his tongue, and brings Paul off as fast and as hard as he can.

Paul lets out a soft grunt as he comes. Barney licks him clean, till he’s twitching and oversensitive, and then crawls back up his body. Paul pulls him close, strokes a hand through his hair, and says, “Thank you.”

“Mmm,” is about all Barney can manage, cock hard and pressed against Paul’s hip. “You taste good.”

Paul kisses him, open-mouthed and pliant. He rolls onto his side, deepens the kiss, and shifts so that Barney can rub his cock against the soft skin of his stomach. Then he reaches for Barney’s thigh, pulling it higher to hook around his hip.

Barney grinds against him. Loses himself in the kisses and the tight grip of Paul’s fingers on his ass. Comes with a gasp and a sigh, full of warmth and love.

*

Monday, December 26, 2005

*

Carlo, Nellie and Paul leave in the early afternoon to deliver something – Barney missed out on exactly what – to someone at their church. Barney takes advantage of the quiet to call Bailey’s grandfather and check in as promised.

Bailey answers the phone again, voice older and deeper since the last time he said, “Merry Christmas!”

This year, it’s a little easier, a little less painful, for Barney to reply, “Merry Christmas! Is Lou available?”

“He went to the store,” Bailey replies. “Can I take a message?”

“Oh,” Barney says. “Sure. I guess tell him Barney called. He knows who I am. Let me give you the number.”

Bailey dutifully writes down the number for the Costas’ landline and repeats it back without prompting, then says, “I’ll give it to him when he gets home.”

“Okay,” Barney says, smiling to himself at his nephew’s good manners. “Thanks, Bailey.”

“How do you know my name?” Bailey asks curiously.

Shit. Barney freezes. There’s the slightest pause, and then he manages to recover enough to say, “I’m friends with your grandpa. You think he doesn’t brag about you to everyone he meets?”

Bailey snorts like Jackie used to, making Barney’s heart clench. “Okay. Fair. I’ll tell him you called.”

Barney doesn’t let out the breath he’s been holding, just says, “Thanks. Merry Christmas.”

Lou phones him back an hour later. “Hello! My grandson tells me I missed a call, that I must call back right away and not keep you waiting.”

“He did not say that,” Barney admonishes him, and Lou chuckles.

“No, you are right. He leaves me a note next to the phone and then runs off with his video games,” he admits.

They go through their paces: Lou reports on Bailey’s health and school progress, Barney insists on not meeting him before he’s eighteen, before he opens his records and knows what Jackie wrote. Before he’s ready to open the Pandora’s Box that is the Barton Family history.

“Bailey say if he’s going to unseal the records this summer?” he asks, before Lou can dig too deep a hole for him to fall into later.

“Yes, I think so,” Lou replies, more serious now. “My girls, they are nervous, you know. They don’t say so much, but they worry what he is going to find. They worry, maybe he gets hurt by what he finds.”

Barney aches to reassure him, to reassure them all. “Look, I know...he’ll find his dad and reconnect with him, at least, and it’ll be good. It’ll be good for both of them, I know...I know my brother will be good to him. It’s what he deserves, it’s what they both deserve.”

“And you?” Lou shoots out. “What does Barney deserve?”

“Look, I got…” Barney pauses, trying to collect his thoughts. “I got a good partner and a good job and a good home. That’s more than I ever expected. It’s more than I ever dreamed I could have. I don’t...I don’t want to mess that up by reaching for more.”

Voice gentling, Lou responds, “This is not the vault at Fort Knox, you know, this is just a little boy.”

“He’s seventeen.” The same age Clint was when Bailey was born, but everything couldn’t be more different. Bailey has parents, adults looking after him, loving him, keeping him safe. He’s still in school. He’s healthy. He’s insured.

“Like I say, just a little boy.”

Barney shakes his head and sighs. Lou just...doesn’t get it. He pushes and pushes, always for what he thinks Bailey should want, what he thinks Caroline and Gabriela should want, what he thinks Barney should want.

Barney wants Clint to get his chance, wants to fix the mistakes he made in 1988 that led them all here. Wants this to be enough to let Clint finally forgive him. Wants Clint to get what he deserves.

“He’s got seven months left to wait,” Barney finally says. “He’ll be okay.”

*

Friday, July 28, 2006

*

Barney doesn’t intentionally track the date, but he can’t help noticing as it creeps closer. As they fly to Pittsburgh again for the family barbecue, and Paul has lunch with his cousin Joey the next day. As they fling open every window of their apartment, bemoaning the San Diego heat, the unusually high humidity, the complete and utter lack of a breeze.

Bailey turns eighteen, and Barney half-expects to get a call from him.

The call never comes.

Barney debates reaching out to Lou, anxious for an update… but at the same time, not entirely sure whether he wants to know. Maybe Bailey decided not to unseal the records, after all. Maybe he did, and Clint told him what happened back then, and now Bailey and Lou have joined Clint in blaming Barney for everything.

He decides to hold off on reaching out. To give Bailey space to find his dad and figure everything out. The call will come, or it won’t, and there’s nothing Barney can do about it but wonder and wait.

What does come, a few days later, is a message on their answering machine from Paul’s cousin Joey. Barney listens to it when he gets home from work, and then plays it again later that night when Paul gets back from his shift.

“Paul! Paul! I had – oh my god – me and Steve, we had a date, we went to the fuckin’ arcade, like you do on a first date apparently, and then we went to his place and – oh my god, we made out on his couch for like, two hours, it was amazing, it was just, like – Paul, he kissed me, and I just – I can’t believe it –”

The message cuts off mid-sentence, Joey having taken up the full length of time with his excited babbling. Barney turns, grinning, to see Paul smiling back at him just as widely.

“Gee,” Barney says, struggling to keep his voice even. “D’you think Joey likes guys, too?”

Paul finally cracks up, bending over with his arms wrapped around his midsection as he guffaws. He eventually recovers himself enough to say, “Yeah, I think maybe a little. God help the poor kid. Twice as many people to kiss. It’s a whole new world for him, now.”

*

Monday, December 25, 2006

*

Back in Pittsburgh, they follow the new routine. Christmas Eve dinner at Andi’s, with special guests Gio and Joey. A quiet Christmas morning with Carlo and Nellie, followed by a boisterous Christmas afternoon with three teenage girls currently in love with Chris Daughtry. After dinner, Paul leaves to have drinks with his cousins, and Barney takes the cordless phone receiver into the guest bedroom.

He sits down on the bed and stares down at the phone for a moment, torn. He never got a call this summer. But he knows that if he doesn’t call now, at Christmas, Lou will certainly call _him_ , and express opinions about contact and updates and family.

Unless Bailey found Clint. And Clint told them the whole messy, messy story. And Lou’s decided he doesn’t want to tell Barney anything more about Bailey’s math grades, or his marching band competitions, or his dating forays. Barney can honestly admit to himself that he _likes_ hearing about Bailey’s life every Christmas. That he’d miss even this tiny, tenuous connection to that six pound, five ounce newborn he once held.

He shakes his head and sighs at the level of melodrama his brain is apparently still capable of producing over the holidays. Before he can change his mind, he dials the Ramirez house and waits for the call to connect.

When it does, the first thing he hears over the line is background noise – talking, laughter, and the tinny echoes of _Jingle Bell Rock_ – and then Lou says, “Hello? Merry Christmas!”

“Merry Christmas,” he replies. “It’s Barney.”

“Hello!” Lou says, even louder and more cheerful than before. “I have been waiting all day for your call, you know! So much to update!”

Barney’s stomach drops, and he barely hears Lou add, “You wait one minute, let me go where it is not so loud.”

The background noise gets louder for a few seconds as Lou passes through whatever room the party’s in. There’s the sound of a door opening, and then a burst of laughter, led by a man’s strong, barking laugh, and all the hairs on the back of Barney’s neck stand up straight, because that sounds just like–

The door clicks closed, and the noise of the party, the sound of that particular laugh, is cut off sharply. The memory of it echoes through Barney’s mind, and he grips the phone tightly, pressing the receiver hard against his ear.

“Okay, that’s better,” Lou says. “So many people in the house today! I am glad to have some quiet time to talk to you.”

“Who’s…” Barney clears his throat. “Who’s all over there?”

“Oh! That is the end of the story, Barney, shouldn’t I start at the beginning?” Lou says, and his voice is teasing, and Barney can’t take it, he can’t. Not after hearing that laugh.

His chest aches. His gut churns. Thunder in his ears. His voice sounds like a stranger’s when he asks again, “Lou? Who’s all over there?”

Lou must hear it as well, the agony that’s cresting like a wave over Barney’s head. The mirth leaves his voice, replaced by something soft and serious, as he says, “I have your brother sitting on my couch right now.”

Barney drops the phone.

He stares at it. He can hear Lou talking, probably asking if he’s alright. His mind is spinning too fast for him to parse the words. If Clint is there, if Clint told them, then why… why is…?

He leans over slowly and picks up the receiver. His knees feel like jelly, so he eases down onto the floor rather than climb back up onto the bed, pulling his knees to his chest. Taking a deep breath, and he raises the phone back up to his ear and says, “I’m here.”

“Are you alright?” Lou asks.

Barney doesn’t even try to answer that. “Tell me...tell me the story.”

“Okay,” Lou says gently. “Okay. In July, Bailey turns eighteen, says, ‘Yes, I want to know where I come from, I do not want to wonder anymore.’ He talks to the adoption registry, and they say, ‘Oh, your birth father has been looking for you for many years, do you want his phone number?’ Bailey, he is thinking, maybe he get a name, maybe even an address, he is not expecting a phone number. But he is brave, so he makes the call, and he says, ‘My name is Bailey Ramirez, I am looking for my birth father, Clint Barton.’”

“Oh my god,” Barney says. It’s suddenly hard to breathe.

“They talk on the phone for two hours,” Lou says. “And then the next weekend, Clint comes to Louisville with his partner and his daughter, and we have a big family meeting all together. Clint is very polite, he brings gifts for my girls and he tells Bailey everything he wants to know.”

Lou pauses. Barney stays silent, mind spinning. What can he possibly say to all this? A partner, a daughter (oh god, he had another child?) and now Bailey, too. Clint finally got what he wanted, and Barney can’t – he can’t quite wrap his mind around the fact that it actually happened.  

When Barney left Clint at the hospital, part of him knew that doing so would sever their relationship forever, that there'd be no walking back that kind of betrayal. But he did it anyway. He made the choice, and as a consequence, he left Clint without any family, without any support at all outside what Child Protective Services assigned him.

But Clint managed to find a new family despite it all. Barney is so, so relieved to hear that Clint managed to move on without him. Relieved and happy and hopelessly heartbroken.

Lou gives up on waiting for a comment and continues the story. “Clint and Bailey talk on the phone many times since then. In the fall, Clint comes to visit again by himself, and then for Christmas, the whole family is here again, all together.”

And then Lou adds, “All we are missing is you.”

“You don’t… You don’t know what… You don’t… Clint _hates_ me!” Barney spits out, the ache in his chest turned to fire, to pain, like a bullet to the heart. “He’s always… he’s never…”

“This is not what Clint says,” Lou replies carefully. “Clint says, ‘My brother raised me and kept me safe. He always did what was best for me, even if it was hard, even if it made me hate him. He loved me that much.’”

Barney sucks in a breath, and covers his mouth with his hand. Curls up, so that his forehead is pressed to his knees like a child. A sob breaks through, and he chokes on it.

Lou sighs. “So, we ask him, ‘Clint, where is your brother now? Why do you not call him?’ He says, maybe it takes him too long to understand why his brother did what he did. Maybe it is too late now to try to find him again. Maybe his brother would not want to see him, would think he is a bother.”

Barney sobs again, just once. He fights to hold the rest back, to stay quiet, to listen. He doesn’t want to hear this, doesn’t want to hear that there’s a chance, that he’s been wrong this whole time: wrong that Clint was avoiding him, wrong that Clint hated him, wrong about it all. At the same time, he’s desperate to know more. More about anything. Anything.

“I think he loves you very much,” Lou says. He says it like it’s true, like it’s a proven fact that can be written down and shared with the world. “You want I go hand him the phone? Let him tell you himself?”

“No!” Barney cries. “No, please, don’t. I can’t, I can’t–”

He can’t talk to Clint right now. He was a mess just hearing the sound of his laughter over the phone from across the room, he can’t… he can’t just come on the phone and talk to him like their lives aren’t anything but normal. Like it hasn’t been eighteen years since Barney left Clint alone in the hospital in Cleveland.

Eighteen years. Eighteen years span the gap between this moment and the last time they spoke. Eighteen years, filled with the Navy, Robbie, CMC Mitchell, Balboa Naval Medical Center, college, Roxxon, Paul, HIV and Combivir, Dustin fucking Hoernecke, Juan and Debbie and Lida, the Pride Parade, the Costas, the FBI, Hillcrest, Pittsburgh, rings and Domestic Partnership and forty-two declarations of love.

Eighteen years convinced that Clint was lost to him, and that it was his own fault.

“I thought he hated me,” Barney admits, voice rough, words coming out terse and pained. “I ruined his life.”

“He is happy. He has a good life,” Lou says reassuringly. “The things that happened, the things you blame yourself for, I am thinking you are the only one who is doing the blaming.”

Barney clears his throat, wipes the tears out of his eyes and off his cheeks. “I need some time. I need to, to think about this. I need to think about what to do.”

“What is there to think about?” Lou asks, and there’s the pushiness again, Lou deciding he knows better than everyone else what they should do. But the ground has given way under Barney’s feet; everything he thought he knew about Clint, everything he thought about what happened in 1988, has been fundamentally altered. He needs to figure out which way is up before he can start to climb back to solid ground.

“I just… It’s a lot to absorb. I gotta, I gotta think before I talk to him. I gotta think about this.” He closes his eyes, and presses his face back into his knees. “I’ll call you back, I’ll call for an update in a little while, okay?”

“Okay, okay, you do what you think is best. I will let you think.”

“Thanks, Lou.”

Barney ends the call, and spends a few minutes focusing on his breathing, because he literally can’t focus on anything else. His brain is spinning, the whole world is spinning, and he’s being thrown about like a tin roof in a tornado.

He turns the phone back on and dials Paul’s cell phone number.

“Hey!” Paul says when he answers. “It’s still early – everything alright?”

“I don’t want to pull you away from your Cousin Night,” Barney says, “but Lou just broke my brain and I’m freaking out.”

“It’s alright, these guys are all pretty boring, anyhow,” Paul says, and a chorus of “Hey!” erupts in the background. “I’ll be home in twenty minutes.”

“Thanks,” Barney says, relieved beyond words.

He takes the phone back out to living room and sets it on its charger. Nellie is on the couch, watching a Christmas movie while working on a crossword puzzle. Barney curls up in a ball next to her, head on her shoulder.

“Everything alright, sweetheart?” she asks, shifting to tuck her arm around his back.

“I’ll tell you all about it in eighteen minutes,” Barney says. He closes his eyes, and sinks into Nellie’s side, and tries not to think about everything he just learned.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One more chapter to go! [Follow the #UKOUD tag on my tumblr for insights and updates.](http://jhscdood.tumblr.com/tagged/ukoud)


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HI I'M ALIVE HERE'S A NEW (AND FINAL) CHAPTER. Thank you kathar for your help, I love your face.
> 
> Warnings for: Gun violence, hospitals, non-detailed medical stuff (equipment mentioned, but no body stuff)

*

Tuesday, December 26, 2006

*

Barney wakes up, legs tangled with Paul’s and head resting on his chest, right over his heart. He can hear it beating, slow and steady, and the sound soothes him like nothing else in the world seems to be able to. Other than, maybe, Paul’s fingers carding through his hair.

And, perhaps, leaning against his mother-in-law on the living room couch. Last night he started off sitting up with his head on her shoulder, staring blankly at the television. The next time he opened his eyes, he was curled up on the cushion next to her, a throw blanket over him and his head in her lap. Paul was in front of him, shaking him gently with a hand on his shoulder.

“C’mon, Barn, let’s get you to bed,” Paul had said quietly. “You look beat. We can talk in the morning.”

Barney had just nodded mutely. With one last smile at Nellie, Barney had trailed Paul upstairs and fallen straight back asleep on the guest bed. Paul hadn’t asked for any details on why Barney had asked him to come home early. Just held in his questions and let Barney sleep.

Awake now, Barney thinks back to what he learned last night. Bailey found Clint. They’ve reconnected. Clint has a family.

His brain shies away from _Clint doesn’t hate him_. Thinking on it too much brings that whirlwind of emotions back to the fore - regret and elation and relief and disbelief. He wonders, instead, about Clint’s partner. About his daughter. About what he’s doing right now, if he’s eating breakfast with Bailey and his family, becoming a part of their lives.

“I can hear you thinking,” Paul mumbles from underneath him. Barney can feel the vibrations of the sound through his chest. “You’re thinking so loud, they can hear it on Mir.”

“It’s not Mir anymore, it’s the ISS,” Barney replies, and immediately returns the kick that Paul levels at his ankles.

“You’re thinking so loud, the sound is traveling _back in time_ to when Mir was in orbit, and Norman Thagard is complaining about the noise,” Paul kvetches, but he’s combing his fingers through Barney’s hair as he says it.

Barney just hums in response and presses his face into Paul’s chest, soaking in the warmth. Then he asks, only deflecting a little, “How was it last night?”

“It was fine,” Paul says, hand still going. “Joey and I got there first. He managed to fit an hour’s worth of gushing about his boyfriend into the space of ten minutes, until the others showed up.”

“Still not out, then?” Barney asks. “Pittsburgh’s not exactly a huge city. Someone’s going to catch on.”

He feels Paul shrug. “I think he’s waiting to see how things go with Steve. Possibly hoping the grandparents have a sudden change of heart about all things gay first, I don’t know.”

Barney snorts, remembering his one and only encounter with the elder Costas in the ER waiting room, the way they’d treated him and Paul like they were less than nothing. “How likely is that to happen?”

“He’s got the favoritism on his side,” Paul says with another shrug. “But sometimes that makes the fall a thousand times worse.”

Paul coughs, and his hand stills in Barney’s hair. “That’s what happened with Dad, anyway. Aunt Andi managed to get away with a lot more deviance just by being the least favorite to begin with.”

Barney shifts up on the bed so that he can tuck his head underneath Paul’s chin and wrap an arm across his chest. He doesn’t say anything, just lets Paul have his moment. Paul takes a breath and nudges him. “C’mon. Coffee and breakfast, and then we can talk about whatever happened last night.”

“Yeah, alright,” Barney agrees, and pulls himself up to sit, and then slowly get out of bed.

With a freshly topped-up cup of coffee in his hand and mere crumbs left on his plate, Paul eventually leans back in his chair and asks, “Okay. What happened last night that got you freaking out and then thinking loud enough to break space-time?”

Barney knocks back the rest of his coffee and says, “I called Lou, and he… he said...”

He trails off; Paul sits up straighter and asks, “Babe? Is everything all right?”

Barney nods and swallows past the lump in his throat. “Yeah, yeah, it’s just. Clint was there. At the house, spending Christmas with them.”

Paul’s coffee cup lands on the table with a clatter, similar to the sound of the phone hitting the floor last night. “You’re kidding.”

“I guess Bailey called him over the summer, after he turned eighteen,” Barney explains. He takes another cinnamon roll from the center of the table and puts it on his plate, starts pulling it apart piece by piece without eating it. “Lou said they’ve been talking on the phone and having visits, and, and Clint told them about me.”

“Oh,” Paul says, and there’s mountains of meaning in that syllable. Oh, Clint told them. Oh, they know now what happened. Oh, they know what Barney did. “What did… You know whatever Clint told them about you isn’t accurate, right, Barn? He has a lot of baggage and it’s not your fault things ended up the way they did. You know that, don’t you?”

“Paul—”

Paul doesn’t let him interrupt, just gains more steam as he zooms toward the wrong — if, understandable — conclusions. “Lou should know there’s two sides to every story, he shouldn’t judge you just by what Clint might have said about what you did when you were _nineteen_ , god—”

“Paul, he didn’t!” Barney insists, setting down his coffee mug with a clatter.

Paul finally pauses, derailed. “Lou didn’t believe him?”

“Clint didn’t, he didn’t say what we thought… what I was afraid was gonna happen didn’t happen.” Barney takes a deep breath and lets it out slowly, centering himself. “Clint said... he said that… You know how we thought he must seriously hate my guts to never have opened a phone book and called me?”

“Reasonable,” comes the wry response, Paul raising one eyebrow as he says it.

“Well, it turns out we were wrong about that.”

“Beg pardon?” Paul asks, disbelief taking residence on his face, only to be immediately evicted by hot disdain. His voice is sharp when he continues, “Is there some other reason why he’s avoided you for eighteen years, through Cleveland and SHIELD and all that nonsense with Hoernecke, and he never once thought to pick up the phone and call you? Why he’s ignored you for, for the better part of two decades, because of a hard choice you made as a _teenager?”_

Barney reaches across the table to take Paul’s hand and squeeze it gently, warmed down to his core by Paul’s protectiveness, by his absolute faith in him no matter what. He shakes his head and meets Paul’s eyes steadily. “He wasn’t avoiding me because he hates me. He didn’t call because… he didn’t want to _bother_ me.”

“Is that _Lou’s_ interpretation, or?”

“That’s _Clint’s_ interpretation. ‘I don’t want to be a bother,’ that’s what he said to the Ramirezes, that’s the reason why, why it’s been so long,” Barney explains. “He’s insecure, and he’s… too scared to reach out. That’s all.”

Paul closes his eyes and lets out a long, slow breath that ends with a quiet curse. “Well. If there was ever a doubt that he’s your brother, it’s gone now.”

Barney shakes his head and leans back in his chair, releasing Paul’s hand reluctantly, needing the space to think. “He told Lou that it, it took a long time for him to understand. Me. To understand that…”

He rips more pieces from the core of the cinnamon roll, not looking up at Paul. “To understand that I did what I did because I loved him. That I wasn’t trying to hurt him. I just wanted to keep him…”

“Safe,” Paul finishes for him, pulling the plate out of Barney’s reach and taking both his hands. Barney looks up, and Paul meets his eyes resolutely. “You wanted to keep him safe.”

“Yeah,” Barney rasps. Eighteen years, and that’s still all he ever wanted. “And he never reached out, he never called me because…. First because he didn’t understand and now because he’s afraid that it, that it’s been too long. That it’s too late.”

“Is it?” Paul asks simply.

Barney lets out a broken laugh. “I don’t know. He’s my brother. It’s been so long but I still think about him every day.”

“You feel guilty about him every single day, too, don’t forget,” Paul reminds him gently.

“You’re not wrong,” Barney agrees, staring down at the dregs of his coffee. “I do that, too. But I… Maybe that can change, now. _Something’s_ gotta change and— I mean, your dad and Gio, that was what, thirty years?”

Paul lifts one shoulder in a slight shrug, smiling sadly. “Closer to forty, yeah.”

“So eighteen’s not so bad,” Barney murmurs, almost to himself. Carlo and Gio managed to overcome a silence lasting twice as long, and now they meet regularly to crab about football together. So it’s not impossible, it’s _not_ impossible.

“I’m not sure the Costa family dynamic is really one you want to be comparing yourself to,” Paul replies, just as gently, his kind tone softening the harshness of the words themselves.

Barney rubs his eyes, too many emotions swirling around his chest to be able to hold every single one of them back. “What other family have I got?”

They sit there for a moment in the wake of that simple statement. Paul reaches for his hand, takes it, brushes his thumb across the backs of Barney’s knuckles until he pulls himself back together again.

“Did you talk to Clint at all?” Paul eventually asks. “Did Lou put him on the phone?”

Barney shakes his head. “I couldn’t. I just… I heard him laugh in the background when Lou answered the phone, and I nearly lost it right then. And then Lou said what he did and I… I couldn’t.”

“Did Lou say anything more about what Clint might want?”

“No,” Barney says quietly. “Just that Clint doesn’t… doesn’t hate me like I thought he did. Not at all. I didn’t...”

He chuckles to himself, and pulls a hand away to wipe his eyes. “I couldn’t handle hearing much more than that.”

Paul nods, and squeezes the hand he’s still got hold of on the tabletop. “Understandable.”

“I just… Suddenly, everything is different from how I thought it’d be. I don’t know what to think, I don’t know what to do next,” Barney confesses. “I know I gotta call him. I _want_ to. Now that I know, I know what’s been going through his head, I can’t leave him sitting there wondering about me and thinking that I’d reject him. Thinking he’d deserve it if I did. I can’t let him keep hurting over this.”

“As the current expert in formerly-estranged family members, can I make a suggestion?” Paul asks, a soft smile back on his lips.

Barney tips his head forward to rest on the tablecloth. “ _Please.”_

“Before you talk to him, figure out what you want from him. How much and how little you can handle getting from him,” Paul says. He frowns for a moment, looking inward. “When Joey first started up these cousin get-togethers, he was full of talk about reconnecting, getting closer and being more involved in each others’ lives, right?”

“Yeah, I remember,” Barney says.

“It’s been a year since then. We’ve gotten together for drinks twice, and yeah, Joey calls me pretty regularly. But Angela and Matt don’t. And I never hear from the others,” Paul points out. He leans back in his chair some more and takes a fortifying sip of his coffee. “This big reunion Joey envisioned, it hasn’t really gone anywhere and it probably never will, because the others won’t put in the effort it takes. For whatever reason.”

“They’re missing out,” Barney says.

Paul’s lips twist in half a smile. “Obviously, yeah. But. I have to accept that that’s all I’m going to get from them, otherwise I’ll drive myself crazy wishing for more and wondering why I’m not getting it.”

Barney scrubs his face with his hands. “So the kernel of wisdom in this parable is, yeah Clint doesn’t hate me and that’s great, but there’s no way to know if what he wants is the same as what I want.”

“What _do_ you want, babe?”

“I…” Barney freezes. Takes a breath. Lets it out slowly. “I guess I gotta figure that out. Probably before I call him.”

Paul nods. “He’s not going anywhere. You have time.”

*

Saturday, January 13, 2007

*

Barney waits — hopefully long enough that Clint should have left by now, even if he stayed in Louisville for New Year’s week, long enough that Barney can avoid getting forced into talking to him before he’s ready. He waits, and then he calls Lou.

“Barney!” Lou chirps happily. “I thought it would be another year until I hear from you again! You were not scared off, then?”

“Maybe a little,” Barney admits sheepishly in the face of Lou’s enthusiasm. “It was a lot to process.”

“You are done thinking, then?” Lou asks. “You are ready to do something, maybe?”

“I… Not yet.”

“Barney, _mijito,”_ Lou says, with no small amount of exasperation.

“I know, I know,” Barney says. “I’m not gonna... I’m not gonna _not_ call him. But if I don’t get my head on straight, first, I could… I gotta take some time to think things through, ‘cause I don’t want to hurt him anymore.”

Lou sniffs. “I do not know why this is so difficult.”

“Bartons are naturally difficult,” Barney replies dryly, drawing a laugh out of the other man.

“Yes, yes, this is a thing I have noticed,” Lou says, good humor back in his voice. “Okay, so, you take your time and then you call your brother. Sometime before next Christmas, maybe?”

Barney thinks for a moment, about the best way to set everything up. So that he’s got support. So that _Clint_ has support. If the conversation goes horribly wrong, somehow. “When’s Clint coming to visit next?”

“In Louisville? Not until the first week of April, for Easter.”

Easter. That gives Barney three months. Three months to get his wants and needs narrowed down, figure out how to talk to Clint, how to tell him about the Navy, about the HIV, about finding Bailey, about seeing him in the lobby of the MGM Grand for the first time in so many years and deciding to walk away…

Three months isn’t a very long time for coming up with a solid, actionable plan to reunite with his brother after so many years of silence and loss. But it’ll have to do.

“I'll call,” Barney tells Lou firmly. “That's when I'll call. I'll call the house and you'll give him the phone and… and we’ll take it from there.”

“Easter,” Lou agrees, voice dubious. “Okay. You want to wait that long, okay. Easter it is.”

*

Saturday, January 27, 2007

*

“I killed his plant,” Joey explains, after he’s taken the three shots of tequila Paul poured for him from behind the bar. He arrived in town this afternoon, newly single not not happy about it, not wanting to explain to his parents or his friends just who it is he’s heartbroken over. Paul and Joey are pretty sure how most of them would react.

But he’s here now, because when Paul heard the news, he invited Joey out for the weekend, and was only a little bit surprised when Joey took him up on it. Paul couldn’t get out of his shift at the bar, so Barney and Joey just followed him to work.

“You broke up because you killed his… plant?” Barney asks, sipping at the Jack and Coke Paul had handed him without a word. He shares a confused glance with Paul, who shakes his head slightly.

Joey lets out a groan and braces his elbows on the bartop. “It was a _special_ plant. He went out of town for work. Like a moron, I said, _Sure, Steve, I’ll look after your place while you’re gone_. Ugh.”

“So you didn’t do it?” Paul asks this time, no judgment in his tone.

“I _did!_ ” Joey insists. He ticks off the list on his fingers: “Took in the mail every day, signed for a package, flushed the toilet, watered the plants, I did everything right! But the stupid Spathiphyllum croaked!”

Barney presses his lips together for a moment before he can ask, “How did Steve react?”

“Pissy. I told him he was being oversensitive, he said I was irresponsible, it became this whole big thing! Over a _plant_. If I’d known he was going to react like that, I would have gone to Walmart and bought a new one before he came home!” Joey twists on the barstool to make insistent eye contact with Barney, the tequila obviously kicking in. He says, like it’s a secret, “You know he wouldn’t have noticed.”

“Maybe not,” Barney agrees, shrugging. “But then you’d kind of be lying to him, which is an issue all its own.”

“Ugh,” Joey groans again. Paul hands him another shot, and he knocks it back.

Barney hopes Paul isn’t using the _good_ tequila back there. He leans forward to peek over the side of the bar and take a look at the label. Nope, definitely not the good tequila. The look Paul gives him practically screams, _Come on, really?_

“So he came home, the two of you argued, and then you broke up?” Paul asks.

Joey’s shaking his head before Paul can even finish. “Worse. It became a _thing_. You know? We never actually _talked it out_ , it was just _there_ , for three months. _Then_ we broke up, because I’m not _sensitive of his boundaries_ , apparently, and he’d much rather date a houseplant than a human being.”

Barney… doesn’t look at Paul. Does _not_ look at him. He takes a breath, and then a sip of his drink, and then he manages to say, “That’s rough, kid.”

“I thought dating guys would be _easier,_ ” Joey groans, head back in his hands.

“Dating in general is pretty awful,” Paul concedes. He lets a small slice of a smile show. “Though there are a few upsides.”

Joey just grunts. Then he lifts his head and asks, “Can I have some more of that tequila?”

“The faster you get trashed, the less time you’ll have to flirt with those guys at the corner table who are checking you out,” Paul warns him.

That makes Joey perk up. He turns to look directly at said table like an amateur, then spins back around toward the bar, flushing red. Paul looks like he might be in acute, physical pain as he watches this performance.

Barney rolls his eyes and shoves Joey off the barstool; he lands on his feet with a grunt. “Go talk to them and get your mind off Steve. You can have another shot if you strike out.”

Joey shoots them a ridiculous salute, and makes his way to the corner table. Barney turns back to Paul and finally lets the grin break across his face. “Your cousin. Is. Ridiculous.”

“Apparently,” Paul says dryly. He steps away for a minute to fill drink orders for some newly arrived bar patrons. Barney knows he’s keeping an eye in Joey’s direction the whole time, alert and protective of his younger cousin.

Barney shakes his head and takes a sip of his drink. What a difference from a few years ago, he thinks. When Paul was spitting mad at his grandparents, his uncles, his cousins — anyone who’d ever turned his parents away, turned _him_ away. Letting that rejection lead him to a fear of commitment — to push people away before they could do it to him first. To push Barney away. To want to push Joey away, when Joey finally got the nerve to apologize to him and come out to him in the same conversation.

And now, Paul has Barney’s ring on his finger, Barney’s name on his apartment lease. And he’s spending time with Joey, guiding him through figuring out what it means to like guys, and what it’s like to break up with one, and what it’s like to come out, and how to be himself when it seems like everyone is telling him that what he’s doing is wrong.

Barney hopes that when he calls Clint in the spring, maybe… maybe he’ll be able to be brave like Paul. Hopes he’ll be able to move straight past the fear of rejection and just… reach out.

Paul drifts back down to Barney’s spot at the bar and quirks an eyebrow at him.

“Just thinking about how proud of you I am,” Barney says, answering the unspoken question.

“Oh?” Paul asks, both eyebrows raised now. “What for?”

“Letting Joey come out here. Being good to him. Not holding it against him, what he called you that one time.”

“He was _fifteen_ ,” Paul replies, looking scandalized. “Of course I’m not going to hold it against him!”

Now it’s Barney’s turn to quirk an eyebrow, and Paul just rolls his eyes. “Fine. I’m not going to hold it against him _anymore_. I like to think I’ve gained a little bit of personal growth now that I’m in my forties.”

“You have,” Barney insists, and his voice is light but he means every word. “That’s why I’m proud of you.”

Paul shakes his head. He pulls out a serving tray and sets about a dozen shot glasses on it, which he fills with some more of that bottom-shelf tequila.

“I’m bringing these over to Joey’s new friends to make sure they’re nice to him,” he says.

And then he says, “Shut up.”

*

Wednesday, February 14, 2007

*

On the seven-year anniversary of their Domestic Partnership, Barney and Paul celebrate with dinner at a fancy restaurant downtown that Debbie recommended them. They park the car in a public lot several blocks away and walk to the restaurant hand-in-hand, enjoying the cool evening air and the scent of salt blowing in over the bay.

As they pass a particular alley, Paul starts to laugh. “Remember when we had that awful date, and we caught those guys having back-alley blowies right over there?”

“That was not an awful date, that was a great date,” Barney protests. “I edged you for about two hours that night, you came so hard I thought we were going to have to clean semen off the _ceiling_.”

“Mmm, that _was_ nice. Your steak was rubbery, though,” Paul reminds him, bumping against him not-so-accidentally as they walk.

“Steak was the last thing on my mind that night,” Barney replies, pressing his shoulder into Paul’s in response. “They could have served shoe leather in place of steak for all I cared. I just wanted to be with you.”

Paul stops, then, and looks at him for a long moment. He’s smiling warmly, and his eyes glow the way they do those rare times when Barney can let slip a soft, _I love you._ Not every day, not even every week or every month, but sometimes. Sometimes the world and the past and the Barton Family Anxiety all release their grip on his voice at the same time and let him speak freely from his heart. What a miracle it is that Paul knows, now. That Paul understands.

Barney steps close, and asks, voice low, “What number are we on?”

“Forty-two,” Paul replies. He quirks an eyebrow expectantly, because he knows, and he understands, and he accepts — and he finds humor in it, anyway.

“Forty-two,” Barney echoes. Nods. “Good to know.”

Paul barks out a laugh, and gets them walking again. “Tease.”

“Yeah,” Barney agrees. He pulls Paul’s hand up to his lips for a brief kiss to the knuckles, right there in the middle of the street, feeling gratitude and rightness sink down into his bones. Fourteen years ago, they couldn’t have an honest conversation about their future together if you held a gun to their heads. Nine years ago, they were so terrified by Barney’s HIV diagnosis they could barely talk, barely function, barely touch each other. It wasn’t until they put in the work — so much work — to reconnect and reassure and rebuild what they had from the ground up, that they could begin to trust that they would get through it together.

Seven years ago, they made it permanent. They put it on paper — a flimsy piece of paper that told the world they were each others’, forced the world to recognize the beautiful thing they’ve created together. Barney’s looking forward to so many more years just like this.

He reels Paul in closer and kisses him, and then they continue on.

*

Friday, March 30, 2007

*

It happens while they’re pulling boxes upon boxes of paper files out of a random corporate office downtown. The building’s been cleared for hours, the employees either arrested or sent home in disgrace. Barney’s promotion last year means he gets to be the one to run around on-site and track down every last bit of accounting bullshit said corporate office has been trying to pass off as its financial reports for the past five years. He directs his team to the company’s filing room, to the executive offices, to the basement storage room with the suspiciously high-tech lock on the door, and checks his list for any other hidey-holes their informant indicated might contain hard-copy evidence of wrongdoing.

Onsite operations weren’t something Barney ever expected to lead when he joined up as a forensic accountant, but Charlene’s been pushing him into taking on more leadership responsibilities, and bossing around his team inside a secured perimeter is apparently a vital element of that. If it gets him out from behind his desk and distracts him from his upcoming phone call with Clint — when he _still_ doesn’t know what the hell he’s going to say — more the better.

The building is empty. The perimeter is secure.

It should have been safe.

That’s what runs through Barney’s mind when he hears the gunshots echo like thunder across the street. When the glass windows behind him shatter. When he drops the banker’s box he’d been carrying and dives for cover behind a car. When Jamie, the other analyst, lands with a curse right beside him.

The other agents on the street are returning fire. Barney can’t… he should...

Something’s wrong. Something’s wrong with… his chest… something...

“Shit, shit, oh shit,” Jamie hisses, voice panicked and scared. “Barton?

“You hit?” Barney rasps. There’s blood on his face. He can taste it in his mouth, feel it on his lips and cheeks. He hopes it’s not Jamie’s, who’s barely even thirty, who transferred in from the Denver office because he was tired of altitude sickness and wanted to… and wanted to… what?

“No, I’m not— Barney, you’re— _shit.”_ His voice changes, then, as training and sense kick in, and he shouts for help at… at someone. There are footsteps pounding on the pavement, and the sound… the sound...

The world spins as Jamie carefully rolls Barney over onto his back. The front of his shirt is wet, and there’s a matching red puddle on the sidewalk where he’d been laying.

Then Jamie places his hands on Barney’s chest and presses down, and with sudden clarity Barney realizes he’s been shot, that there’s a hole in his chest leaking red blood and he can feel something, bones or _something_ , grinding together in a way that frightens him, and he can’t help but let out a sharp cry, feeling his face pull and twist out of his control.

He’s going to pass out. His vision’s blurred, he’s lost sight of Jamie. His body is heavy, weak. He can’t move, and somewhere in the back of his mind he realizes that given just where he’s been shot, there’s a fair chance he might never wake up.

For all the time he spent worrying about dying, back when he first got diagnosed with HIV, he didn’t think it’d be anything like this. He’d prepared himself for death and then he spent a hell of a long time un-preparing himself. Focusing on living. Appreciating what he has. Who he has.

He’s not ready for that to end. He’s not ready for his time with Paul to end.

_Paul…_

He tries to take a breath; it catches in his chest and he coughs, blood splashing onto his tongue. Is this how Clint felt? Is this how Clint felt when he died? When he almost… when he...

He can’t… he can’t go now. He can’t _leave_.

“Paul,” he tries to whisper. It hurts. He doesn’t know if they can hear him. He doesn’t know where they are. Where is Paul? “Tell...”

His mouth fills with blood. He can’t breathe. His vision tunnels in. He tries and tries and tries to stay, but he can’t, he can’t. The world fades away.

_Tell Paul I’m sorry…_

*

Barney wakes up.

He’s in… a hospital room? He blinks groggily, sees grey tile and too many lights. A dark silhouette comes into focus above him, and then he realizes — it’s Paul. Paul’s here. He licks his lips, finds them chapped and cracked, and manages to ask, “What…?”

“You’re okay,” Paul says, taking his hand and squeezing it gently. His voice sounds strange. Distant, and raw, and… Barney forces himself to focus on the words as Paul continues. “You were shot and had to have surgery, but you’re going to be okay.”

Barney knows that should worry him more than it does. Something is dulling the sharpness of his anxiety along with the physical pain, making it hard to focus on either. And in front of him, Paul... Paul just looks so terrible: exhausted, with dark shadows under his eyes and a 5 o’clock shadow staining his cheeks.

Barney opens his mouth with difficulty, tastes antiseptic and wax on his lips, and asks, just barely above a whisper, “You okay?”

Paul smiles faintly. The expression looks out of place on his haggard features. He tilts his head, reaching up to comb his fingers through Barney’s hair, like it’s just another evening at home on the couch. “I’m fine, babe.”

A flash of memory. “Jamie?”

“He’s fine, too,” Paul assures him. “Not a scratch on him.”

Barney nods, feeling exhaustion start to overtake him. Which is ridiculous; he’s only been awake two minutes, and he wants Paul… always, he wants more time with Paul.

Paul closes his eyes, nods to himself as if coming to a hard-fought decision. Then he looks at Barney and says, “I called Clint. I was afraid— so I called him.”

Barney blinks again, feels consciousness slide away from him like a drinking glass on an airplane hitting sudden, unexpected turbulence. “What?”

Paul starts to explain, but Barney doesn’t hear any of it.

*

Barney wakes up.

He blinks groggily for a few moments, taking in the dimmed lights overhead and the figure seated in the visitor’s chair to his right. It’s not Paul.

He wonders if it’s possible to hallucinate while on pain medication. That’s the only reasonable explanation for why his brother is here, sitting next to his hospital bed. Clint’s face has drawn tight in the last few moments and his hands are clenching the arms of the chair so hard, his knuckles are white and shaking.

Barney struggles to focus. He blinks, and Clint is the teenager he left behind in Cleveland. He blinks and Clint’s an adult again, 36 years old, the baby fat in his cheeks long disappeared, new lines around his eyes and a new scar on his neck that looks years old. He blinks and it’s _Clint_ , and he wonders what Clint is seeing now, if he sees the grey that’s been coming in at his temples, the wrinkles on his forehead, and all the other ways the years have touched him. He must look like a completely different person to Clint, now.

 _Are we still brothers?_ he wonders.

Clint’s jaw is tight, brow furrowed as if in pure, physical pain, and no, hallucination or not, that won’t do.

Barney reaches up, muscles straining with the effort, pushing past the drugs, the pain, the wires and tubes in his chest. He presses his thumb to the space between Clint’s brows, smoothing out the tension there with a gentle stroke. Their mom used to get a wrinkle there, too, when she was upset. Clint has her eyes, her coloring, her soul.

Clint sucks in a sharp breath, eyes widening, like he’s shocked at this small gesture of affection coming from his older brother unasked-for. He tilts his face till his cheek is cupped in Barney’s palm, raises his own hand up to cover Barney’s and hold it there. His grip is tight. Desperate. In that moment, something in his face breaks.

“Hey, baby brother,” Barney says, voice so, so gentle, the way it never was when they were young, when they were fighting to survive, when Clint probably needed it the most.

Clint closes his eyes and lets out a single chuckle. It makes Barney smile.

Then the world is fading out again under a haze of drugs.

He realizes his fingers are damp, where they rest pressed against Clint’s cheek.

He sleeps.

*

Saturday, March 31, 2007

*

Barney wakes up. This time it’s not Paul, it’s not some hallucination of his long-lost brother — it’s an RN waking him up, asking him questions, and drawing blood while he tries and fails to get his brain to ignore the combined effects of pain, medication, and deep, deep exhaustion. He blinks at her tiredly, barely registering the elastic and the needle.

After fifteen minutes of prodding his veins and fussing, the nurse finally gets what she’s after and leaves him in peace. He’s just fallen back asleep when they wake him again at seven to prod at him with a thermometer and a blood pressure cuff, and to ask increasingly annoying questions about how he feels and how his breathings is. And then, mercifully, they let him go back to sleep.

The next time Barney wakes up, he does so on his own, and finally, finally, it’s Paul sitting next to him again.

“Hey,” Paul says, voice soft, but not as raw as it was last time — last night? He looks like he’s slept since then, too, and had a shower and a shave, and the knot deep in Barney’s stomach loosens a little more. Paul continues, “You’re in the ICU. You’re on some pretty strong pain meds. You’re okay.”

Barney lifts his hand to his face, investigating the weird feeling going on there, which he somehow failed to notice all morning. There’s a tube in his nose. Lovely.

“Yeah, I know,” Paul says, this smile a little more natural than the last one. “Feeding tubes are gross. Your stomach’s a little bruised. They’ll take it out in another day or two.”

He trails his hand down toward his chest and stops when he hits bandages. Whatever medication they have him on is dulling the panic he knows he would normally be feeling. “Damage?”

“Your heart’s okay,” Paul reassures him gently. “Your lung got the worst of it. It collapsed, and you were in trouble for a little while, but they fixed it.”

Barney frowns at that, dully wondering what _trouble_ might mean but unable to focus well enough to fully imagine the possibilities — or to ask.

“You have a broken rib, too,” Paul adds, still pretty calm. He takes Barney’s hand and directs it away from the bandages to rest at his side. “Be careful when you take deep breaths, they say it’s going to feel weird as hell.”

“Okay,” Barney says, absorbing this just as slowly as the last piece. “Day is it?”

“Saturday afternoon. You were shot yesterday morning.”

Barney closes his eyes, exhausted again. Paul squeezes his hand and asks, “You feeling a lot of pain, babe?”

“Nah,” he lies. It’s not exactly pain, but everything from his neck down feels _wrong_.

Paul presses a narrow piece of plastic into his hand. There’s a wire coming out of it, and a button at the end. “This controls your drip with the pain meds. Hit the button when it hurts, okay?”

Barney shakes his head, just a few degrees to either side. He’s already drowsing again, but he needs to see Paul, to hear Paul, to know he’s okay because Paul says he is. “Don’t want to fall asleep again.”

“You gotta heal, babe. You lost a lot of blood, and—” Here, Paul’s breath hitches, and his expression breaks, and his voice comes out rough when he adds, “You gotta just focus on healing, okay?”

“Okay,” Barney says. He’d agree to anything just to wipe that look off of Paul’s face. He hits the button once. “You, too. Gotta take care of you.”

“There are so many people here taking care of me, you wouldn’t even believe,” Paul says wryly, his voice sounding normal for the first time all day.

The medication kicks in before Barney can ask what that means.

*

Sunday, April 1, 2007

*

Barney wakes up at the crack of dawn for the nurse checking his vital signs. He wakes up again two hours later for more vital signs. Paul must have gone home last night — hopefully went home, hopefully was able to sleep — because once again, it’s not until Barney wakes up for the third or fourth time that he sees Paul next to him again, reading the paper like it’s just another morning.

“Hey,” he breathes, so quietly, but Paul still hears him. Paul always hears him.

“Hey yourself,” Paul says, flipping the paper closed and dropping it to the floor beside his chair. “How are you feeling?”

He frowns. Lifts a hand to rub at his eyes, finds the nasal tube again, grimaces and drops his hand back down. “Fine. Day is it?”

Paul takes the opportunity to lace their fingers together. It’s warm. “Sunday the first. You remember what happened?”

Barney finds himself frowning deeper, trying to recall the intervening time between getting shot on Friday morning — and wow, that’s a memory he’s not going to enjoy having once they take away these pain meds — and waking up on, apparently, Sunday. “I remember... but not… after.”

Paul squeezes his hand, sending a wave of reassurance through Barney’s body with that simple gesture and accompanying smile. “Do you remember waking up in the recovery room? After the surgery?”

“I woke up?” He doesn’t remember. Maybe he doesn’t. Faint impressions, maybe, if he tries hard to pull them out of his memory.

“A couple times, yeah,” Paul says. He starts combing the fingers of his free hand through Barney’s hair. “We’re up to fifty-six now, by the way.”

Last Barney knew, they were barely into the mid-forties. He blinks in confusion. He doesn’t remember — and telling Paul he loves him is something he _should_ remember, every time. It’s important.

“Yeah, babe, sorry. You were pretty chatty coming off the anesthesia.” He cracks a smile, a little less carefully, a little more Paul-like. “I’m still counting them.”

“Good,” Barney says. It doesn’t matter if he doesn’t remember, in the long run. “Meant it.”

Paul looks down at their clasped hands for a moment, then glances back up at him, eyes serious now. “Do you remember seeing Clint?”

He blinks again. Sees a flash of Clint, knuckles white, eyes red, face lined and drawn in pain. Barney feels an answering pain in his chest that the morphine can’t dull. It tightens his throat, makes his voice even rougher when he asks, “Not... hallucination?”

“Not a hallucination,” Paul confirms, hand stilling in Barney’s hair for a moment as he thinks of what to say. How to keep from upsetting Barney even more. Barney knows the meaning behind Paul’s pauses. “Things were looking bad for a little while. I called him just in case… I thought, given the circumstances, you would want me to call him.”

Barney can’t speak for a moment, his words trapped by too many emotions warring with physical pain and the exhaustion of healing, all of it hampered by the steady flow of pharmaceuticals. In his silence, Paul adds, “I’m sorry. If I… If I got it wrong.”

He shakes his head slightly, just enough to stop Paul’s train of thought and give himself a chance to process it all. Getting shot. Surgery. Paul, getting a phone call and rushing to the hospital. Maybe being let straight in, or maybe having to fight with the hospital staff, having to pull out their domestic partnership certificate and wave it at them and threatening a lawsuit until they let him in. Paul, having to listen to doctors and consent to procedures and then.... somewhere in there, realize it’s serious, serious enough to consider calling Clint on Barney’s behalf and bring him here in case…

In case...

Barney looks up at Paul, meets his eyes and squeezes his hand as tightly as he can manage, trying to put as much reassurance into the gesture as he can. “S’ok,” he says, as clearly as he can manage with only one working lung and veins filled with analgesic.

Paul lets out a breath like he’s been holding it for twenty hours. His shoulders slump down from around his ears, and he leans forward to place the lightest, gentlest, most careful of kisses on Barney’s dry, cracked lips.

“Sorry... scared you,” Barney whispers, while their mouths are still just a breath apart. “Into calling.”

Paul nods, tilting his head and resting his forehead against Barney’s. “It’s okay, babe. It’s okay.”

Whatever’s in the drip must be kicking in, or maybe it’s just pure exhaustion. Either way, Barney’s vision starts to tunnel, and he closes his eyes. But still, he manages one more, “Love you.”

“Fifty-seven,” Paul chokes out, halfway between a laugh and a sob.

Barney wants to tell him not to cry. Wants to hold him. Instead, he sleeps.

*

Monday, April 2, 2007

*

The routine of the hospital continues. Six AM, the nurse comes in to record his vital signs. Eight AM, she comes back for more, but this time, she finally removes the feeding tube. It is… unpleasant.

As soon as she leaves, an attendant comes with his breakfast: the saddest, dryest toast in all of San Diego and a glass of watery orange juice. Barney falls back asleep when he’s only halfway finished, probably out of self-defense.

“I _really_ want to stay awake this time,” he says, hours later, before even opening his eyes. He remembers what happened to him. He remembers waking up before, and passing out. He’s already over it. There’s a chuckle from somewhere above him. He tilts his head in that direction and asks, “What time is it?”

“It’s, uh, twelve-thirty. PM. It’s Monday. Um. Paul’s mom dragged him off to get lunch. They should be back soon.”

That voice. That… Barney knows that voice: it’s older, deeper, more confident, but there’s no mistaking it for anyone else. He knows it, but still, he doesn’t want to open his eyes and find out he’s wrong, that he’s remembering wrong, that he’s going to get it all _wrong_. His breath hitches.

“Barney? You okay? Do I need... should I go get somebody?”

No. No, he can’t leave.

Barney sucks in another hitching breath and opens his eyes. Clint is standing in front of the visitor’s chair as if he’d just jumped to his feet a second ago. He’s leaning over the bed, his face an abject picture of Barton Family Anxiety, hands hovering at his sides like he wants to reach out and touch but isn’t sure he’s allowed to try. “Barn?”

Hearing his name — that old nickname, in Clint’s adult voice, the first time he’s heard it since he was nineteen, an audible reminder of all the time that has passed — makes Barney’s throat tighten even more. He focuses on his breathing, trying to calm down, and he’s not begging, he’s not, when he says, “Don’t go. Please. I’m okay.”

“You sure?” Clint asks, panic still evident in his face, just as easy to read as it ever was. He looks like he hasn’t slept. His eyes are puffy and rimmed in red, like he’s cried sometime in the last day. It makes the age lines, the wrinkles, stand out even more, makes it so, so clear how long it’s been since they last saw each other.

Barney wants to pile blankets on top of him like he used to, until the panic is soothed away by the weight and the warmth. He can’t, because he’s trapped in a hospital bed, attached to a thousand tubes and wires, and… Clint isn’t a kid anymore. He doesn’t need that, doesn’t need anything, from Barney anymore. He’s an adult, a SHIELD agent, a father; he grew out of the role of “little brother” a long, long time ago. He might not want it back.

“You’re here,” Barney states dumbly, still not quite sure he can believe it. After Cleveland, after SHIELD, after Las Vegas, Clint is finally here.

“‘Course I’m here,” Clint says, sitting back down and wrapping both hands around the bed railing like it’s the only thing keeping him upright. “You’re hurt. Paul called me and said you were hurt, so I… so I came.”

Barney stares at him. There’s no _of course_ about it in his mind.

Clint wilts under his gaze, and looks away. “I’m sorry if... I know it’s, you’re hurt and it’s a weird situation. I don’t want to make you… uncomfortable, I guess.”

“I’m not,” Barney says, tripping over the words, hearing the rasp in his voice from pain and exhaustion and age. “I’m not uncomfortable. I’m glad you’re here.”

Clint’s eyes shoot back over to him, full of surprise. “You… you are?”

 _He didn’t want to be a bother_ , Barney remembers suddenly, the insight from Lou that made everything suddenly crystal clear last Christmas. Clint didn’t reach out before because he was scared, because he thought Barney would judge him or reject him or yell at him. Because the last time they saw each other was in a hospital room not dissimilar to this one, and their parting words were shouted in anger, and in tears, and Barney stormed out and kicked in a cabinet in their trailer until it was nothing but splinters and they haven’t spoken to each other since.

“Yeah, I am,” Barney says. He tries to smile, to be reassuring. He’s not sure how successful it is. “If you wanna yell at me and walk out, though, I won’t blame you.”

Clint lets out a surprised snort — and that, that hasn’t changed, thank god. “Aw, c’mon, Barn. I wouldn’t do that. I’m just… I’m just glad to be here. I didn’t... Paul called me, soon as he said what happened to you I asked him if I could come, so I… so here I am.”

The levity drains out of his voice when he adds, “I had no idea that you… had looked for me. That you knew where I was. I...”

He trails off, looking away again, and Barney tries to explain, to absolve Clint of whatever feelings of fear or insecurity are drawing his head down, making him brace himself against impending rejection.

“I was gonna call. Easter. Had it all planned out.”

“Yeah?” Clint asks, and the way he says it, with such hope and happiness, it gives Barney the nerve to lift his hand and rest it on top of Clint’s, where it’s still wrapped around the bedrail, like it’s the only thing keeping him together.

Clint doesn’t move his hand away. He lets go of the railing, turns his palm up to interlace his fingers with Barney’s and squeezes tightly, like he’s terrified he’ll be pulled away.

Pulled away _again_.

Barney’s breath hitches at the thought, and the movement sparks a fiery pain deep in his left lung that leaves him suddenly gasping, straining for air as his body suddenly reminds him it has a hole in it. Panic surges through him in the wake of the pain, and he can’t catch his breath, not for anything. All he hears is the wheeze in his chest, all he can see is the grey storm cloud rolling in, darkening the edges of his vision and swiftly taking over.

Clint’s standing again, pulling Barney’s hand close to his chest. His voice, careful and commanding at the same time, somehow breaks through it all, telling him to, “Breathe, it’s okay, you’re safe, breathe in for four. One, two…”

Clint counts him through a set of deep breaths, holding his hand all the while as he watches the monitors, watches Barney. His gaze is measured, confident; the look of a SHIELD agent who knows what needs to be done, and does it. It’s entirely new, and it’s reassuring as hell.

Barney’s breath eases. The panic fades away, leaving him exhausted, like he’s aged another decade in the last ten minutes. He closes his eyes, vaguely mortified that the first thing he did when he reunited with Clint again was to fall head-first into a full-on Barton Family Panic Attack.

There’s no judgment in Clint’s voice, though, when he says, “Good. Good job, Barn, that’s a lot better. Does it hurt? Do you want to hit the button?”

His chest aches, in a way that’s deep and awful and _wrong_ , but he doesn’t want to bump his meds. Not while Clint is sitting here talking to him, holding his hand, _being here_. There’s no criticism, no censure. Clint knows about the Barton Family Panic Attacks, he’s lived them, he might still be living them, same as Barney has.

Barney shakes his head at the offer of IV remote. “Want to stay awake.”

Clint sits back down in the visitor’s chair and leans forward, till his head is resting on their linked hands. He stays there for a moment, the space of a breath, and then he looks up and says, “I know we gotta talk some more, there’s a lot we gotta say to each other. But it doesn’t have to be today. I’m not going anywhere. Not till you’re better. Okay?”

Barney nods. He’s so tired. He needs a break. Clint isn’t going anywhere.

“Now please give yourself some pain drugs, you look like you just got kicked in the chest by a horse,” Clint says.

Barney nods. Clint would know, after all. He presses the button, closes his eyes, and lets himself be swept away by a wave of relief. Clint keeps holding his hand.

*

When he wakes up, the world outside the window is dark, the lights in the room are dimmed, and Carlo is in the visitor’s chair.

“Dad,” Barney breathes, not quite awake. “You’re here.”

“Good evening,” Carlo replies quietly. “The others went to dinner. I offered to stick around. How are you feeling?”

In the dark and the quiet, with Carlo looking at him somberly, Barney can’t find it in him to deflect or lie. He answers honestly, “Pretty awful.”

“You know, if you pretend you’re fine when you’re not, it takes longer to recover,” Carlo says. “Paul can handle ‘pretty awful.’”

Barney looks away, too tired to come up with a response to that. A touch on his hand has him turning back again.

Carlo’s expression is serious, but kind. Like he knows every thought and emotion crowded inside of Barney because he’s felt the exact same way before. “So your brother is here, I saw.”

“Yeah,” Barney sighs. He glances away from his father-in-law. “He says he’s here to stay.”

“Does he?” Carlo asks, voice light. From anyone else, it’d be… the kind of comment that would have Barney’s hackles shooting up. But this is Carlo, who knows something about brothers, about decades spent apart, about awkward reunions where both parties want the same thing but neither are very sure of the other. If anyone in the world understands the upheaval in Barney’s head right now, it’s Carlo.

“That’s what he says,” Barney replies. “Any words of wisdom?”

Carlo chews on his answer for a minute. Then, “Don’t rush it. And don’t let it distract you from dealing with that hole in your chest.”

Barney winces. He doesn’t want to think about… any of that… and worrying over Clint’s motivations, Clint’s level of commitment, Clint’s expectations for what’s going to happen next now that they’ve been reunited under inauspicious circumstances… is somehow a hell of a lot easier than thinking about where he is, and what brought him here.

He doesn’t turn away from Carlo, but he doesn’t close his eyes. Says, “I don’t want to talk about that right now.”

“Okay.” He hears Carlo shift, and then kiss him on the forehead, like he’s eight years old. It makes something tighten in his chest that has nothing to do with the gunshot wound. “Get some rest, son. I’ll be here.”

*

Tuesday, April 3, 2007

*

Barney wakes up for vital signs and knows he needs to talk to Clint. He doesn’t know what he’s going to say, what he can possibly tell him, how to explain everything he’s done, said, felt, promised or imagined since the day he walked away.

His thoughts spin around the subject slowly, through the poking, the prodding, and another meager breakfast. It’s a nightmare trying to focus, with his energy sapped by the hole in his chest he refuses to think about and his body clamoring for another post-breakfast nap.

He closes his eyes as soon as he finishes eating, and gives in.

The next time he wakes up, there are voices. People in his room. He listens.

“He woke up a little bit about an hour ago, the nurse said, and then he fell back asleep. The drugs are really laying him out flat.” That’s Clint. Clint’s still here, like he said he would be.

“Is that normal?” Paul asks. Oh good. Paul is back.

“The same thing happened to you when you had your wisdom teeth out, you just don’t remember,” Nellie’s voice says, and that — that grabs Barney’s attention.

“Mom?” he asks, struggling to open his eyes. He finally focuses on the faces above him, all turned to look down on him. Nellie and Paul are smiling gently. Clint looks like he’s recovering from a sudden punch to the gut, but Barney can’t figure out why.

“Hello sweetheart,” Nellie says, interrupting his confused, slowly spinning thoughts. She leans down to press a gentle kiss to Barney’s cheek. “How are you feeling?”

“I’m good,” Barney lies. He’s awake, and his family is here. That counts as good, no matter what.

Nellie shakes her head at him. Paul steps up to kiss him, then, and murmur a soft, “Hey.”

“Hey,” Barney replies, matching his tone. He feels less like a liar with the warmth of Paul’s lips on his, and his smile feels a little more genuine.

Paul visibly relaxes, and Nellie steps up then to tuck her arm around her son and lean against him.

“How long have you been here?” Barney asks her. He knows that the… what happened, happened a couple of days ago at least. Is this the first time he’s seen her? He doesn’t remember seeing her before, though he thinks he remembers talking to Carlo last night. “And how many conversations have I forgotten because of the meds?”

“I got in on Sunday morning, but you were napping when I visited,” Nellie replies. Her shoulder is moving; she’s rubbing Paul’s back, right between his shoulder blades where he carries his tension. Barney loves her terribly, the moment he sees. “Clint’s been here since — when did you get here, dear?”

“About, uh, two o’clock on Friday, I guess?” Clint says, scratching the back of his head and looking about twelve years old as he answers Nellie. Nellie seems to be enjoying that immensely. “I don’t know, it’s been — a lot’s happened since then.”

“Tell me,” Barney says. He’s been out of it for days, Clint is here and Nellie is here who knows who else is here and everyone seems to somehow know each other so well — what the hell has he missed?

There’s a bit of shuffling, as everyone gets comfortable for what is apparently going to be story time, now that Barney can maybe stay awake long enough to hear it. Paul takes the chair while Nellie stands behind him, hands resting on his shoulders for support. Clint leans against the wall by the window, part of the conversation but also… apart. It makes Barney’s chest hurt to see him there, a hurt that the IV meds can’t touch.

Paul bites his lip, collecting his thoughts for a moment. Then he begins. “On Friday, Charlene called me. To tell me what happened. I got to the hospital right after your ambulance did. They took you straight into surgery. Debbie and Juan came and waited with me. There were some, uh, complications.”

Paul’s voice breaks for a moment, and he clears his throat. “Do you want the details about the complications, or…?”

“Do you know all the details?” Barney asks.

Paul nods. Paul, who read every book on HIV in the local library a few years ago, who subscribes to _several_ health magazines just so he can keep apprised of the latest HIV research and treatments. Of course Paul knows all the details.

“I trust you,” is what Barney says. “You don’t need to tell me all of it right now.”

“Okay,” Paul says. “Okay. So. There were some issues. And then the doctors came, and I had to— I had to tell them what to do—”

Paul takes another deep breath, shoulders rising and then falling again under Nellie’s hands. “That’s when I remembered Clint. I figured, you were planning to call him soon anyway, so maybe you wouldn’t mind if I brought him down here early.”

“I don’t mind,” Barney says gently.

Paul meets his eyes, then, and Barney can see the conversation they’re going to have later, when they’re alone and the situation isn’t so fraught: where Paul will ask if it really _was_ okay, and Barney will tell him, _You thought I was going to die. You did what you thought you needed to do. I’m not gonna judge you for one single second of it._

For now, though, Paul just sends him a relieved smile that Barney returns, and says, “I called him and said who I was, told him what was happening, and he…”

“I was so shocked, I dropped the phone,” Clint admits sheepishly, scratching the back of his head, when Paul trails off. “I kinda do that.”

Paul nods, and continues, “He drove down here with his family, got here about an hour and a half later, and… we all waited together for you to get out of surgery. It was about eight o’clock that night, when they finished up and told us you were going to be okay.”

“Drove down from where?” Barney asks, stuck for some reason on that ninety minute drive time, ignoring for the moment all the implications of _with his family_ and _waiting for news_ and _nine hours of surgery_ and _complications_ and _Paul making decisions in a hospital waiting room_.

“I live in Los Angeles,” Clint says with a shrug.

“You mean to tell me,” Barney says, and it hurts his chest to say it and he doesn’t know why, why his chest is hurting, why his ears are ringing, why there’s thunder rumbling overhead when the window behind Clint’s silhouette shows clear skies, “that out of the whole country, the whole entire world, we ended up spending… spending this whole time just a hundred and some-odd miles apart?”

Clint nods carefully, expression wary, like he can hear the thunder, too, can see the storm clouds rolling in and the flashes of lightning aiming for anything or anyone stupid enough to be standing outside.

“Jesus.” Barney stares up at the ceiling, trying to get his bearings, to catch his breath, to make his heart stop hammering against his stitches and tubes and shattered rib.

All this time, all this time and they’ve been so close. So close to each other. Never meeting. And eighteen, nineteen years passed in a breath, in a moment, in a progression of days one after the other, not a single one going by where he didn’t think of his brother, didn’t wonder, didn’t ache, and he was _right there_.

_(Paul in a waiting room, Paul waiting for news, Paul in a hospital watching Barney fight for his life, Paul making treatment decisions because Barney can’t, Paul… Paul…)_

He blinks, and somehow the room is empty, save for Paul. Paul leans over him, tissues in hand, and wipes Barney’s face with tender care. “Hey. You went somewhere else for a minute.”

“Sor—” Barney tries to say, but his breath hitches, and pain radiates out from the left side of his chest as he tries to heave in a breath of air bigger than he can handle.

Right. Broken rib.

“Easy, easy there, Barn. It’s okay.” Paul sets the tissue down and goes for Barney’s hair, combing through it soothingly with his fingers, giving him something to focus on as he tries to remember how breathing works. “You’re hurt, you’re hurting. Nobody’s expecting anything from you right now. You want to go back to sleep, you go back to sleep. We can talk more later.”

Barney shakes his head, even as he hits the button for more meds. He wants to tell Paul to go home and get some rest, because his eyes look tired even if the rest of him doesn’t, because the thought of Paul waiting for him in the hospital is a nightmare he’s been fighting for nine years.

He wants to tell Paul to stay here with him, because vital signs are awful and breakfast is awful and being alone in bed is awful. He wants to tell Paul he loves him.

He wants to tell Paul to send Clint back into the room so they can talk about everything. He wants to tell Paul to send Clint back to LA.

He can’t. He can’t find the words, and the meds are kicking in, dulling everything and making the world go grey.

*

When Barney wakes up, what feels like hours later, Clint’s back over by the window, and he’s not alone. He’s leaning his hip against the sill and talking quietly with an unfamiliar white guy in his mid-forties, with thinning brown hair, blue eyes, and a jawline that could easily break half the hearts in Hillcrest. His casual clothes, the way he slightly leans into Clint’s space, and the relaxed set of his shoulders suggest he’s not a member of Barney’s medical team. He’s here for Clint.

Clint glances over at Barney, notices he’s awake, and smiles. He nudges the other man, and the two of them step closer to the bed in tandem.

“Hey, Barn,” Clint says. He doesn’t ask how he’s feeling; over the past few days, everyone has seemed to stop believing Barney’s responses. “This is, uh, this is—”

“Phil Coulson,” the man says, reaching out to shake Barney’s hand carefully.

Barney glances back and forth between the two of them, finally settling his gaze on his brother. “You’re not about to try and tell me this is your coworker, are you? Or your platonic roommate?”

Clint bursts out the kind of laugh that can infect an entire roomful of people with the giggles, he’s so apparently delighted. “Technically, he’s both,” he manages. “Except without the platonic bit. It’s very not-platonic.”

Phil is smiling as well when Barney rolls his eyes and turns to him. He asks, “How long have you been together?”

“About nine years,” Phil replies easily, just as Clint says, “Three and a half years.”

Barney raises his eyebrows as Clint flushes and Phil keeps smiling that genial, SHIELD agent smile. “Those two numbers are not similar.”

“We’ve been working together for nine years and dating for three,” Clint clarifies. He rocks his body gently, pressing his shoulder against Phil’s. Phil leans into it ever so slightly. It’s sweet.

“Any kids?” Barney asks. He knows the answer — knows from Lou that somewhere along the line, Clint had another child. He doesn’t know how she fits in the picture, who she might be.

Clint and Phil exchange the kind of look he’s seen Nellie and Carlo send each other over the dinner table, the kind where are entire conversations are held within a single glance. “We’ve got Natasha,” Clint answers. “She’s next door in the family lounge holding court. I’ll go get her?”

He’s out the door before Barney can say a word for or against, and then it’s just him and Phil. There’s quiet for a few beats. Barney shifts in bed, trying to get a bit more comfortable.

“I know we just met and obviously don’t know each other well,” Phil says eventually. “I feel compelled to give you some sort of shovel talk, the kind where I threaten you not to hurt Clint again under any circumstance. But you still look pretty terrible, so I’m having a difficult time gearing up for it.”

Barney appreciates his honesty, if not the sentiment itself. “Shouldn’t it be the other way around? Me, the scary older brother, threatening you, the boyfriend?”

Phil smiles wryly. “Clint’s pretty popular around SHIELD. I promise that I’ve been thoroughly threatened by some of the most terrifying people you can imagine.”

Barney finds himself smiling back. “Good.”

“But. Clint was… very upset, when Paul called to say you’d been shot,” Phil says carefully. “He won’t admit how much it scared him, but it did. The possibility of finding you and losing you on the same day.”

“I know the feeling,” Barney says, forcibly pushing back the memories that have been trying to swamp him since Friday. He doesn’t want them. Doesn’t want to think about them.

Phil looks at him like he can see those same images in technicolor, in 3D. “I suppose you do.”

“I don’t— I know Clint and I got a lot to talk about,” Barney begins. “And I’m not telling you this as a way to, to get out of that conversation. But you’re a part of SHIELD and I need to tell you that I did try to contact Clint through them, but the agent I talked to, he kinda blew me off.”

Phil goes from standing at ease, smiling mildly, to freezing in place for just a split second. Then he asks, “You wouldn’t happen to know the name of that particular agent, would you?”

“Yeah, a guy named Dustin Hoernecke.”

The easy-going guy persona drops away entirely, and Barney watches Phil Coulson wince emphatically and pinch the bridge of his nose like he developed a sudden stress headache. “Agent Hoernecke, for fuck’s sake,” he mutters.

“Not a fan?”

Phil looks back up at him, and there’s a warmth in his gaze that wasn’t present before. “Not particularly. Agent Hoernecke should have recused himself from the case due to a conflict of interest. I’ll make sure it gets dealt with.”

“Isn’t _that_ a conflict of interest?” Barney asks.

“I’m reporting it, I’m not dealing with it _myself_ ,” Phil huffs. “But — and I’m saying this as a SHIELD agent — that situation was mis-handled, and we apologize for that. You should not have been barred from contacting Clint.”

“I… to be fair to Hoernecke, I was going through a— a health crisis, at the time, and I didn’t really put my best face forward,” Barney admits quietly. “When I never heard from anyone, I guess I figured he’d told Clint what happened and Clint decided not to bother with me.”

“No, that didn’t happen,” Phil insists. He’s got his arms crossed, and he’s shaking his head. “Clint never knew you tried to reach out to him, that he still mattered to you. If he’d known, things probably would have gone very differently.”

Barney nods his understanding. “Yeah, I'm starting to see that.”

“Why did you—” Phil begins, then looks over at the doorway to say, “No luck?”

Clint walks back into the room alone, shaking his head. “She’s on the phone with Maria. Something about some Tobey Maguire movie that’s coming out next month. It was a, uh, pretty heated discussion. Thought I’d better just leave them to it.”

Clint turns toward Barney and shrugs. “You’ll meet her at some point, I promise. When, um, when Paul called me…”

He trails off awkwardly, and Barney picks up the slack with, “And you dropped the phone?”

A snort from Phil, and Clint ducks his head to hide his embarrassment. “Yeah, uh, after that. I wasn’t really in a fit state — she and Phil came down here with me. She drove and Phil made all the, you know, phone calls to the hotel and work and all that.”

“She drove?” Barney asks, doing the math in his head. “Did you have her, what, your first week at SHIELD?”

“What?” Clint asks, staring back at him in complete confusion as if he’d just started randomly speaking Russian. Then his face suddenly clears, and he says, “Oh! No, I— she’s not mine. Or I mean, she is mine, legally she’s mine, or we’re each other’s, I guess. It’s all judge-approved and official—”

“She’s adopted,” Phil clarifies, with a warm look at Clint. “She’s twenty-two, now, and very capable of going 95 miles an hour down The Five without getting caught on radar.”

“Is that why we got here so fast?” Clint asks bemusedly. “I thought I was just spacing out extra hard in the backseat.”

Phil raises his eyebrows a fraction of an inch, and Clint laughs before turning back to Barney. “Yeah, I met Nat when she was around thirteen or so. Got her out of a bad situation, she can tell you about it if she wants. Did an adult adoption through LA County a few years ago to make it all official.”

Barney wonders over that, the infinite possibilities encompassed in the words _bad situation_. Was Natasha a runaway? An orphan? Was she living rough, or staying in a hope with people who hurt her? And Clint met her, and saw that something was wrong, and he… rescued her, it seems. The way Josh and Carson and the circus saved two little boys, so many years ago. Patched them both up. Lied to the police about them. Gave them a place to stay that was permanent, even if it was on wheels, rolling into a different county every week.

Clint is paying that forward. Clint, it seems, turned out to be just as good a man as Barney could ever have hoped he’d be. Despite all of Barney’s mistakes, his fractured, frightened, faulty attempts at parenting a kid only two years younger than himself. Despite everything.

“Hey, Barney,” Clint says, voice low, concern evident in every syllable. “You okay?”

Barney takes a shallow, shaking breath and lets it out carefully so as to not disturb his lung or rib. He looks up at his brother. Quietly, he says, “I’m really proud of you.”

The visitor’s chair rattles ominously when Clint suddenly sits in it, shock writ large across his face. Phil doesn’t say anything, but he steps closer to rest a hand on Clint’s shoulder.

“Oh,” Clint breathes. “Oh, I, um…”

He ducks his head, wipes his eyes and takes what looks like a calming breath, which shudders as he lets it out slowly.

Barney wonders if he crossed a line — if maybe it’s not his place, if he’s lost the right to say things like that.

“Thanks, Barn,” Clint eventually manages, face still turned down and away. “That’s… that’s good to hear.”

Clint swipes at his eyes with the cuff of his sleeve, breath coming in faster now, like he wants to get a handle on wayward emotions but they’re just… too much. Barney knows that feeling — knows how well Clint knows that feeling — and while he’s not exactly in a position right now to pile Clint with blankets and turn the TV on loud, there is… there is something else he can do. To help. Maybe.

“Hey,” Barney says. When Clint looks up, Barney raises his arm on his uninjured side. “C’mere.”

Clint steps close, and Barney hooks him around the shoulders and pulls him in. Clint goes willingly, and loops his arms around Barney’s waist as soon as he gets close enough.

“I know we got a lot to talk about,” Barney tells him, tucking his chin so he can speak directly into the hearing aid over Clint’s ear. “And a lot of that talking’s gonna have to wait ‘cause, I don’t know if you noticed, but I got shot recently. But you know I always been real proud of you. Always.”

Clint’s shoulders are shaking, and Barney can’t tell if he’s laughing or crying. Barney looks up at Phil helplessly.

Phil’s already nodding and typing something into his phone. Then he steps to the doorway and sticks his head out into the hall for a moment. He pulls back, and a second later a young white woman walks in, bright red hair pulled back from young, delicate features.

She surveys the scene, frowns, and then says, “Dad, I’m hungry.”

Clint keeps shaking. The woman — Natasha, obviously — steps up next to Clint, pokes him in the shoulder, and repeats, “Dad, I’m hungry.”

The trembling tapers off, but Clint doesn’t raise his head. His voice is muffled, face pressed against the blankets covering Barney’s chest, when he says, “You’re twenty-two years old. You are old enough to find the cafeteria by yourself.”

“Hospital food is gross,” she replies, sounding about thirteen.

“That’s true,” Barney says. She shoots him a wink.

Clint pulls away slowly, wiping his eyes as he leans back onto his chair. When he’s all the way upright, the woman sits down on his lap heavily, bouncing once or twice before settling.

“Oof!” Clint groans. “Nat, get off, your butt is way too bony for my old knees.”

“Maria likes it,” Nat says, unmoving.

“Lies, Maria doesn’t like anything,” Clint says back, squirming uselessly. It’s kind of hilarious. He eventually sighs and says, “Barney, I’d like you to meet my daughter, Natasha. I love her, but she is terrible.”

Natasha looks proud of herself, even as Clint grumbles.

“Hi,” Barney says, bemused. “Sorry for making your dad cry.”

“It’s okay, I do it all the time,” she says. She twists toward Clint and points to a spot on his neck, a scar about half an inch long, just above his jugular vein. “One time I was in the middle of a flashback and I stabbed him with an industrial staple. That was before he adopted me. He’s very forgiving.”

“You _stabbed_ him with a—” Barney starts to ask, then cuts himself off. Clint _said_ she came out of a bad situation. In Barney’s experience, flashbacks are simply par for the course. “Huh. I wondered where that scar came from. Good aim.”

Natasha, seeming unusually pleased by the compliment, brightly chirps, “Thanks!”

Phil catches Barney’s eye, then, and adds, “The first time Clint kissed me was after I’d avoided him for six months because I was too ashamed to apologize for something.”

“You guys are stretching the limits of my forgiving nature,” Clint mutters, even as he tucks his nose into Natasha’s hair. He’s stopped trying to dislodge her.

“No, we’re not,” Natasha replies easily.

Clint wraps his arms around her and gives her a squeeze so tight she squeaks. “Yeah, you’re really not.”

Barney sees movement out of the corner of his eye and spots Paul in the doorway to his room, arms folded, leaning his shoulder against the doorframe as he watches them all talk. He shares a smile with Barney, relaxed, and says, “They’ve been like this the whole time. Juan thinks they’re hilarious.”

“Juan’s not allowed to have opinions on things after the last tragedy he inflicted on his car,” Barney says.

“What kind of car?” Natasha asks.

*

Wednesday, April 4, 2007

*

Vital signs again at the crack of dawn. Terrible breakfast again. Then the nurse returns, and most of the tubes and wires come out. This includes the IV meds, which are replaced with pills to be delivered every four hours in little paper cups.

Paul and Clint arrive in his room right after the end of this whole process, fresh from the medical team meeting with coffee that they don’t share, and details that they do.

“They want to keep you here another day or two, then move you to a skilled nursing facility by Friday as long as you’re healing up okay and haven’t had any more complications,” Paul explains between sips from his takeout cup.

Barney glares at the coffee cup, then glares at Paul. The new pills haven’t kicked in yet, and he can feel every single spot on his body where something broke the surface to get at him. “They’re sending me to a _nursing home?”_

“It’s not a nursing home, babe,” Paul says. “It’s like a halfway point between hospital care and outpatient care. They’ll keep you for five or six days, and then they’ll send you home.”

“That seems an awful short stay for… for having been shot in the chest,” Barney argues. He glances over at Clint. “Weren’t you in the hospital for, what, six weeks?”

“Eight,” Clint admits. He takes a sip of his own coffee, then adds, “But I had, you know, brain damage. And, like, four broken bones.”

“Six broken bones,” Barney corrects him, making Clint twitch in surprise and stare at him, as if Barney hadn’t snuck a look at his medical chart way back in Cleveland. Who the hell does Clint think he’s talking to.

“It’s not a competition,” Paul says, trying and failing to keep a straight face as he watches them. “Babe, the hospital wants to send you home fast as it can without causing complications, so that you won’t get complications just from being in the hospital. Dr. Beth is on board with it.”

At that, Barney relaxes a bit. He trusts Dr. Beth. And yes, he trusts Paul. But the pills are apparently useless, and his whole body hurts, and he won’t be home for Easter, and.... “Shit.”

Paul and Clint both flinch and step toward him, hands raised in concern. Barney waves them off, and looks at his brother. “You were supposed to be in Louisville this weekend, with Bailey.”

“It’s okay,” Clint says, sharing a look with Paul for some reason. “He knows what’s going on.”

“I had to call Lou to get Clint’s number, and that meant explaining the situation to Lou, first,” Paul says. “I had to promise him updates, so we’d better call him this weekend, anyway.”

“Oh, hell,” Barney says. He closes his eyes, feeling suddenly guilty for giving Paul such a hard time when Paul’s been through so, so much this week — dealing with the hospital, calling complete strangers out of the blue, arguing with doctors.... He pushes the pain away, locks it up inside himself so it’s easier to ignore until that blessed moment when the pills finally start to work. He reaches out a hand and says, “C’mere.”

As Paul steps forward, Clint mumbles something about finding someone somewhere and trots out the door. Barney only has eyes for Paul. “Sorry for being a jerk. Feel like I haven’t seen you in forever. You okay?”

“I love that you’re the one in the hospital bed, and yet you’re still the one asking that,” Paul says, sitting in the visitor’s chair and taking his hand, kissing the back of it gently. Barney gives his fingers a squeeze.

“You can look at my chart any time you want to find out how I am. I’m the one that’s gotta go through all the effort of asking and making you tell me the truth,” Barney replies. He pulls Paul’s hand up to his lips and takes his turn pressing a kiss to Paul’s knuckles. “So go on and tell me.”

Paul huffs out a laugh. “I love you. Stop fussing over me when you’re obviously in pain.”

“I love you, too. Stop trying to distract me from distracting myself from the pain by fussing over you.”

Paul’s eyes light up in a way they haven’t since Barney woke up in a hospital bed. “Now you’re the one distracting me.”

“Paul,” Barney insists. “C’mon. Tell me.”

Paul shakes his head, and the light fades away. “I’m… hanging in there. Mom and Dad being here helps. Talking to Dr. Beth helped. Clint and his entourage being here is weird, but I think it balances out on the helpful end of the scale.”

He takes a deep breath, then, and leans forward until his head is resting on Barney’s shoulder, opposite the gunshot wound. Barney tilts his head until it’s resting against Paul’s, and listens as Paul quietly confesses, “Bed’s too empty, though, not having you in it. Nothing’s gonna help with that except getting you back home.”

“Yeah,” Barney agrees. “I know the feeling.”

“This… this scared me,” Paul whispers in Barney’s ear, confessing the exact same fears Barney’s been grappling with all along. “I’d spent all this time preparing for cancer or pneumonia or some other weird HIV complication, and here you are getting shot like a normal FBI agent.”

“You didn’t plan for that, babe?” Barney asks, oh so gently, hoping to make Paul chuckle.

Paul shakes his head and croaks, “No.”

“To be fair to you, I _am_ an _accountant,”_ Barney says.

“You were supposed to be safe,” Paul insists, voice creaking with pain and unresolved grief. “You were supposed to be _safe.”_

“Yeah, babe, I know. I know,” Barney soothes. It’s awkward to bring his other arm up to cup the back of Paul’s head, but he manages it. “This scared me, too. Scared me, imagining you sitting in that waiting room for me like I’ve always— you know I’ve always been so afraid of putting you through that.”

“Yeah,” Paul whispers. “I know.”

“And it— it scared me when,” he pauses, swallows, takes a breath, continues, “when it happened— when it had me thinking for a minute I was never gonna see you again.”

Barney ducks his head closer to Paul’s, and says, deliberate and strong as he can manage from mostly-reclined, days out from nearly dying and just barely on the mend, “But I’m okay now. I’m gonna be okay now. You don’t gotta worry no more.”

Paul’s shoulders tremble, and Barney shifts to wrap his arm around him and pull him closer. He doesn’t have the lung capacity right now to make it sound like anything other than a tuneless whisper, but he sings their song, anyway. “ _We've got to hold on to what we've got. It doesn't make a difference if we make it or not…_ ”

Paul makes a sound that might be a laugh or a sob. He raises his head and gently, gently presses his lips to Barney’s.

He tastes like salt. Of course he does.

Barney keeps whispering the lyrics. Paul puts his head back down and stays there, tucked in close, until the hospital staff descends for more blood work and vital signs and, eventually, lunch.

*

Juan shows up after work that night, deck of cards in hand and sly comments (about Barney’s looks, the food, the other residents, and his car) ready to go. Lida arrives later that evening with 15 homemade cupcakes that spell out “SORRY YOU GOT SHOT.”

Barney smiles through his mouthful of cake, and tries not to think about it.

*

Thursday, April 5, 2007

*

About an hour before Barney is due to take his afternoon pain meds, Charlene and Jamie arrive bearing flowers and a card signed by the team at work, wishing him an uncomplicated and speedy recovery.

They wind up staying for over an hour. Most of that time is spent on Barney reminding Charlene that he’s an FBI agent first, accountant second, and that what happened absolutely wasn’t her fault.

“I recruited you, Barton,” she reminds him right back, completely even-toned. “I trained you. I’m permitted some concern that I’ve lost my investment. The effort of replacing you would be an administrative nightmare.”

Barney laughs hard enough to make the pain in his chest flare up. He tries not to let it show, but Charlene must have some kind of pain management sixth sense. She makes her excuses soon after, and heads out of Barney’s room with a brief pat on his hand.

Jamie hangs back for a minute, looking suddenly awkward.

“What’s up?” Barney asks, hoping it’s nothing too involved, because his last dose has definitely worn off if the ache in his chest is anything to go by.

Jamie glances at the doorway, as if he’s worried about — or hoping for — an interruption. He sticks his hands in his pockets, leans back on his heels, and says, “I wanted you to know… When you were shot, I, uh, was right next to you. I don’t know if you remember, but I used my hands and my jacket to try and, um, stop the bleeding.”

“You were in contact with my blood,” Barney realizes, hands clenching his blankets until he’s sure his knuckles have turned white. He leans his head back on the pillow to stare up at the ceiling, gathering himself. “And I have HIV.”

“Yeah. The doctors here, they’ve put me on PEP, uh, post-exposure, um...  prophylaxis.”

“I'm sorry,” Barney says, and god, he means it.

“No, no, it’s okay! The doctors said you’re, um, since _you’re_ on meds and _I’m_ on meds, I'm at really low risk.” Jamie explains, and Barney relaxes for a moment. “And I mean, even if I get it, it’s not like it’s a big deal, right? You’re doing alright. Nobody actually dies of AIDS anymore.”

Barney jerks his head back in surprise. He stares at Jamie for a moment, grasping for words, and finally says, “Three million people died of AIDS _last year_.”

Jamie waves a hand dismissively. “That’s all in Africa, though, right? That’s just because of poverty and war and stuff. It’s different for us.”

“Jamie,” Barney begins, holding onto his temper because he knows Jamie isn’t trying to be insensitive, he’s just a fucking idiot. “I get that you’re at really low risk of transmission. And if you do have it, you’ll be fine, because you’re straight, white, employed, and insured.”

Barney thinks of the guys in his support group. The barriers they’ve faced right here in San Diego to get tested, get treatment, get insurance without a giant “pre-existing condition” red flag (and financial black hole).

Some of them still aren’t on ART. Some of them have died waiting for it.

His chest _aches_ , and he can’t seem to stop the pain, or his irritation, or his mouth. “...But what’s true for you isn’t true for everybody, and you gotta respect that not everybody who gets this is as lucky as you, even here.”

“Look,” Jamie says, digging in his heels for some ungodly reason. “I know back in the eighties it was all over the news, but it was all just a big scare. Not that many people actually died of it, you know? The news really blew it all out of proportion.”

“A scare? A fucking— did you just call it a _scare_? It killed half a million people in this country and you’re calling it a _scare?_ ” Barney snaps.

It killed Josh. It killed Todd Jablonsky. Debbie’s friends. Juan’s friends. Six thousand other San Diegans. Freddie fucking Mercury. Do people really think of it like that anymore?

Jamie blanches, like he’s realized he’s stepped on a land mine, and he’s frantically thinking of ways to escape without losing limbs. “Okay, scare maybe wasn’t the right word. But I mean, that was… that was back in the eighties.”

“It wasn’t just then. People still get it — I didn’t get it till ‘97,” Barney points out. “It’s still a big deal today, whether you wanna admit it or not!”

“Sorry,” Jamie says, finally abashed. “Sorry, I just…”

Barney looks away from him, and sets eyes on Clint.

Clint is standing in the doorway, listening. Clint is standing in the doorway of his hospital room, watching him scream at a younger colleague for _no fucking good reason_. Because he’s tired and in pain, and Jamie’s being obtuse, so he might as well take out all his frustration on him, as if he could ever deserve it. Clint is standing in the doorway looking panicked, looking ten years old, and Barney can’t take it — can’t take Clint staring at him like that.

Barney takes a careful breath and lets it out slowly, trying to let his frustration out along with it. He looks back at Jamie, and tries to smile an apology. “No, look, I’m the one who should be sorry. You tried to help me and it put your health at risk, I shouldn’t be yelling at you.”

“Well, you _did_ just get shot, like, a week ago,” Jamie replies, forcing an awkward smile. “If it’d been me, I’d want to yell at somebody, too.”

Barney tilts his head back against the pillow and raises a hand to rub absently at his chest, just above the still-tender stitches. “Yeah, getting shot really sucks.”

“I’ll, uh, I’ll do some reading on that stuff, I guess. I've gotta catch up with Charlene, though,” Jamie adds, thumbing at the door. “I just wanted to… yeah.”

“Let me know how it goes,” Barney says. “With the PEP, I mean. I’ll try to be less of a dick next time.”

Jamie shakes his head, the smile a little more genuine now. “Nah, you should always strive to be yourself.”

Barney snorts. “Shut up.”

“You owe me a jacket,” Jamie says, and then he’s out the door with a quick wave goodbye.

Barney closes his eyes and takes another careful, deep breath. He hears Clint’s unmistakeable footsteps as he crosses the room and makes his way to the visitor’s chair. Barney doesn’t look at him as he sits, shame welling up in his chest alongside the deep, throbbing itch of healing.

Clint doesn’t do well with angry men. Clint is going to think Barney is a giant, angry asshole. Clint is going to hate him, Clint is going to _leave_ , Clint is—

“Meds wore off, huh?” Clint asks, voice filled with wry amusement instead of censure.

Barney shakes his head. “Not an excuse. Never a good excuse.”

“Yeah,” Clint admits, tone still light. “But, it’s a pretty good explanation.”

Barney shakes his head again, and opens his eyes to look at his brother. “I don’t— I tried so hard— I don’t ever wanna be like Dad or, or those other assholes. I don’t ever wanna do… what they did.”

“You worry about that a lot? Turning into them?” Clint asks.

“All the time,” Barney replies, voice hoarse for some reason. “All the… all the fucking time.”

Clint leans forward and stares at him. His eyes glint under the fluorescent lights. He doesn’t look ten anymore. “That’s the difference between you and them.”

Barney stares back. “What is?”

“They never worried about being assholes. They never doubted they were right, not for a second, not even when— when they were doing their worst.” Clint takes a breath; Barney instinctively echoes it. Their eyes are still locked. “So I think worrying about it? Pretty solid evidence you’re nothing like them at all.”

Barney feels it, the moment the connection breaks. He has to look away. He doesn’t know what his face is doing.

Clint takes his hand.

*

Friday, April 6, 2007

*

If Barney never has to do a medical transfer while recovering from a gunshot to the chest again, it will be too soon. The hospital staff move him from bed to wheelchair to medical transport van, then twenty minutes stuck in traffic because there’s construction on the 805. Then back into the wheelchair, and into the skilled nursing facility.

He trusts the transfer and sign-in details to Paul and Clint, and falls asleep as soon as he’s settled into his new bed.

*

Sunday, April 15, 2007

*

They survive Easter Sunday, all of them crowded around two pushed-together tables in the cafeteria of the SNF, and a phone call to the Ramirez family with everyone talking on speakerphone at once.

They survive the day Barney’s dose of pain meds gets cut again, leaving him sore and short-tempered.

They survive his release from the SNF, the slow, careful car ride home, the even slower and more careful trip up the stairs to the apartment, and the 13 hours Barney spends passed out asleep, finally, in his own bed.

Phil and Natasha leave for LA the next day. After some discussion with Paul that Barney either isn’t awake or isn’t present for, Clint transfers his things from his hotel room down in Hotel Circle to the foot of Barney’s couch, and that’s all there is to it.

It’s a few days later, when Paul has left to drive Carlo and Nellie to the airport to go back to Pittsburgh, that Barney feels like he might not actually survive this.

First, a muscle cramp spreads from his chest down to the fingertips of his left hand, making him spill his soda all down the front of his shirt. That same cramp means he needs Clint’s help getting the sticky, damp t-shirt off so he can put on a new one.

Clint freezes the moment Barney’s chest is bare. At first, Barney thinks it’s the sight of the bullet wound that’s put the broken look on Clint’s face. Then he remembers his tattoo.

_Clinton Francis Barton_ _  
_ _6/18/71 ~ 7/1/88_

“It’s…” he starts to explain, and then trails off, because how can he?

“Tyrone do that for you with his kit?” Clint asks after a long few seconds, voice tight with pain and regret and…. and Barney doesn’t even know what else.

“Yeah,” he says. “A couple days after… When we all thought you were…”

“Yeah,” is all Clint says.

“When I found out you weren’t— I thought about getting it removed, but—”

“No, I get it,” Clint replies, voice coming alive again, sounding more like himself. “It’s be bad luck.”

Barney sighs, and pulls on the clean t-shirt Clint had brought him. “Yeah. Listen, I’m—”

It’s a car backfiring in the street. He _knows_ that’s all it is. It’s a sound he’s heard a hundred, a thousand times, always from that same intersection a dozen yards west of his living room window.

San Diego’s experienced maybe three thunderstorms the entire time Barney has lived here. He knows it’s not storming now. Knows he’s hearing the thunder because he heard the car backfire, that it sounded like a gunshot, that Barney has a _bad history_ with the sound of gunshots — he _knows_ all this, so why the _fuck_ is his breath caught in his throat, his heart hammering in his chest, his hands trembling and clutching at the couch cushions underneath him?

Nothing’s wrong. _Nothing’s wrong_.

“Barney?” Clint asks, voice echoing as if from a distance, and Barney snaps back into focus. His brother is standing next to the couch, looking down at him in concern. As if he deserves concern. As if he deserves to have Clint standing in his apartment asking him, “You all right?”

“I’m sorry,” Barney says after a moment. He has to say it. He has to do this _now_. He’s tired of waiting for the right time, the right words, the right opportunity.

“What for?” Clint asks, shifting uneasily in his seat but carefully not dislodging Barney’s hand on top of his. It’s understandable; Barney rarely, if ever, apologized to him growing up. Not in so many words, not so directly.

He has to pause to catch his breath as their whole history, the shared pieces and all that time spent apart, hits him at once. There are so many things he’s sorry for: everything he’s done their entire lives, whether together or apart. Well. That’s one way to begin.

“Back in… in ‘86… I lied to you about how Josh died,” Barney says, the admission crawling up out of his throat before he can stop it. “I told you he went to the hospital for treatment but the hospital wouldn’t take him, and he died of AIDS on their front steps.”

Aghast, Clint says, “Jesus, Barney, I don’t—”

He can’t stop the words pouring out of his mouth, doesn’t even know why he’s saying them here and now, just that he has to tell, has to make sure Clint _knows_. “And then I got it, and I thought I was gonna die and I didn’t want to put you through that, so when SHIELD found me, I told them not to tell you where I was. I had the chance to contact you ten years ago and I didn’t, I said no.”

Shaking his head, Clint says, “I was a mess ten years ago, Barney, I don’t care.”

“Even before that, I found Bailey, I coulda told you where he was but I didn’t, you coulda found him sooner, you coulda kept him but I let Jackie—” Barney heaves in a breath, and keeps going. He has to keep going. He has to _explain_. “I left Jackie in the hospital in Cincinnati. And then I left _you_ in the hospital in Cleveland the… the same way, I _left_ you there and— and I never came back until it was too late, and it ruined your life, and— you shoulda left, you shoulda left me here, how can you even stand to be here—”

“Hey, hey, hey,” Clint says, gently like he’s talking to a spooked horse, an injured dog. “It’s okay, I’m not mad at you. I’m not going anywhere. There’s nothing you can tell me that will make me leave. There’s nothing you can say that will drive me away. It’s okay.”

Barney shakes his head. He can’t… his thoughts are spinning faster than the room, and all he can hear is thunder, and all he can see is the gunshot that ripped them apart. And the gunshot that brought them back together… for how long? How long before Clint is ripped away again? What’s he going to end up doing to make Clint leave?

Clint appears in front of him — when did he move away? He’s holding out a glass of water with one hand. His other hand is palm-up, and holds a tiny, pink tablet.

Xanax. For panic attacks. Which is what Barney is having right now, apparently. Dr. Beth got tired of seeing his freakouts all over his medical chart, and ordered him a prescription to treat them.

He takes the pill and, still holding the glass, leans back against the couch cushions. There’s a blanket across his shoulders, he realizes. No, three blankets. Clint…

Clint sits down next to him, picks up the remote, and turns the TV onto the Food Network.

They watch the second half of an episode of _30 Minute Meals_ together, not talking, just… breathing deeply. Waiting out the panic. Waiting for the drugs to kick in.

When the credits start to roll — and Barney feels like he can think again — he hits the mute button and says, “I… that wasn’t the panic talking, in the beginning. I _am_ sorry.”

He holds his breath and watches Clint absorb that, watches his face fall and his shoulders slump and his head bow, hiding whatever expression replaced the contentment he’d found in Rachael Ray.

It’s been so long. He’s wanted to say those words for… so, so long. And now he has. And the relief at finally being able to express to Clint how deep his regret truly goes can barely offset the fear that, despite all the evidence from Christmas and from today, Clint won’t accept it. Won’t forgive him. Won’t let him try to… make up for it, somehow.

Clint keeps his head down for a few more moments, then takes a deep breath and looks back up at Barney. His eyes are clear of anger, and his voice is gentle when he says, “You were right, you know. About everything. There’s no way I woulda lasted headlining at the circus. No way I coulda supported Jackie and Bailey on my own. And no way I coulda recovered from getting shot, living out of a camper in a different town every week.”

Barney argues, because he can’t _not_ , “You’d be within your rights to hate me for it, though.”

Clint huffs, smiling wryly as he looks back at him. “I kinda did, for a little while. More than a little while. But I get it now, and… and you don’t have to feel bad about it anymore, okay? I forgave you years ago.”

Barney nods, his throat and chest too tight to let him speak. Not that he knows what to say, what he could possibly say in response to Clint’s easy acceptance, his understanding, his forgiveness.

“When I got here,” Clint continues, more serious, another uneasy shift in his posture. “Once things with the hospital got settled, and we knew you were gonna be okay, Paul said… Paul told you’d tried to find me a couple times and that I shoulda looked for you, too. He was, I guess he thought I was trying to avoid you all this time, but Barney, I didn’t… I wasn’t… I just…”

“It’d been years, and you didn’t want to bother me,” Barney finishes for him. He and Paul had both assumed Clint just didn’t want to reconnect, and they hadn’t realized that maybe they were wrong for a long, long time.

Shrugging, Clint admits, “Kinda, yeah.”

Barney closes his eyes and leans his head back onto the couch cushion, inexplicably angry with himself. “I’m sorry I ever made you think you were a bother, when I was supposed to be taking care of you.”

“You weren’t the one who taught me that, you know,” Clint says, so seriously that Barney raises his head to look at him again. Their parents, and their foster parents, and the folks at the circus, all go unmentioned and unnamed, but he knows he and Clint are both thinking of them, all the adults in their lives who failed them over and over again. Who left it up to a twelve-year-old to raise his younger brother all on his own.

“But I’m sorry I let it get stuck in my head,” Clint continues, frowning at himself. “I shoulda looked you up ages ago.”

“You’re here now,” is all Barney can say. Clint wouldn’t have let this go so quickly when he was a teenager; somewhere on the path to adulthood he must have learned how not to take things so personally.

“Listen, Barney,” Clint says, fidgeting with the edge of one of the blankets covering both of them, now. “You don’t gotta believe me right now. I can’t… I don’t regret how things turned out. My life… I got a lot of people who love me, and now I got you back, too. I’m just grateful I got you back, I don’t care how long it took. Okay?”

Barney remembers, suddenly, Paul’s words in the hotel room, that night in Las Vegas. About deserving to be loved as he is, without having to prove it, without having to prove that he’s worth something, that he _matters_. And here he is, faced with Clint ready to accept him for exactly who he is, and Barney’s… arguing with him. Trying to convince him otherwise. So sure that there will be something, something he’s done, some piece of his past or fact of his life that will crop up somewhere down the line and convince Clint to change his mind.

Because to gain Clint’s acceptance now and then lose it again later... He can’t handle that.

He’s trying to sabotage himself, Barney realizes. To drive Clint away, to protect himself.

He’s being an idiot.

“Okay,” Barney says, feeling acceptance settle into his chest like the pile of blankets across his shoulders. “Okay.”

Clint nods at him, and turns the volume back on the TV. They watch cooking shows together until Paul gets home.

*

Saturday, May 12, 2007

*

Clint stays in town, helping out, running errands, and acting as an extra set of hands when Barney’s muscles lock up, when he’s too exhausted from the effort of healing to do much of anything for himself. He stays until Barney’s physical therapy ends, when he’s a week or two away from being ready to go back to work. He stays as long as Barney and Paul need him to, and then he goes home.

Clint leaves, but not before wrapping an arm around Barney’s shoulder and saying, “So you’re coming up to LA next month for my birthday, right?”

“Wouldn’t miss it,” Paul says, when the lump in Barney’s throat won’t let him manage a reply of his own.

Barney nods. And then he shoves at Clint, gently, and says, “Get the hell out of here, you’re gonna miss your train.”

Laughing, Clint steps away, and heads up the steps and onto the Amtrak. Barney and Paul watch through the windows as Clint gets settled in his seat, and wait on the platform until the train pulls away from the station.

Barney leans against Paul, tilting his head down to rest on Paul’s shoulder, and says, “Thank you.”

“For what?” Paul asks. He strokes his hand up and down Barney’s spine, a soothing pattern that makes his muscles relax almost immediately. He’s nearly healed, now, but the strain on his body has done a number on his back; he’s got weekly massage appointments booked for the next three months.

“Calling him. Bringing him here. Letting him help,” Barney explains. “You didn’t have to, but you did, and now— now—”

He has his brother back.

“I like him,” Paul replies, honesty and surprised mixed together in his voice. “He’s a good guy. Getting to know him… He makes you make sense.”

Barney snorts, which makes Paul chuckle and continue, “I called him, yeah. But you’re the one who made him want to stay, babe. You have that effect on people.”

Barney can’t think of a good response to that, so he keeps his heated face tucked against Paul’s neck for another few moments. Then they pull apart slowly, exchange a kiss, and head to the car, and home.

*

*

*

Friday, July 4, 2008

*

The weeks go by, and Barney slowly heals.

He and Paul visit LA the weekend of Clint’s birthday, but they miss the Costa Family Barbecue due to Barney having used up all his banked time off in the hospital. The summer passes in a whirlwind of phone calls and emails and time in the car crossing the 115 miles that lie between them.

They do Thanksgiving in LA, Christmas in Pittsburgh, and New Year’s in Louisville. Bailey takes one look at Barney and says, “Hey, weren’t you at the hospital after I got in the accident?” and then completely fleeces him at gin rummy, his smirk an exact replica of Clint’s, down to the dimple in the corner.

Before Barney knows it, a year has passed.

And then more than a year.

And then they’re back in Carlo and Nellie’s backyard, setting up folding chairs among the patio furniture, confiscating Cousin Andy’s lighter, and introducing Clint, Phil, and Natasha to the assembled Costa/Doyle relatives. Gio and Joey are here, Joey with a date who may or may not be the original boyfriend Steve (and may or may not stay that way, given how he keeps getting distracted by the sight of Clint’s arms). Aunt Andi is here with Vinnie. Neil and Julie and their kids (who have suddenly, alarmingly, become teenagers) are all here.

Barney sticks close to Paul, holding his hand and sharing a grin with him every time their eyes meet. Which is pretty often, because Barney can’t look away from him, can’t stop himself from staring at him: Paul, his partner. Paul, the love of his life. Through thick and thin. In a helluva lot of sickness, but always striving toward a healthy relationship, a healthy outlook, a healthy life.

Together.

After the hot dogs and burgers come off the grill, and everyone has nearly finished eating the first course of party food, Paul climbs on top of the picnic table and waves his arms to get everyone’s attention. Barney keeps his feet on the ground where they belong.

The casual post-meal chatter dies down. All eyes turn to them.

“This a fashion show?” one of Paul’s Doyle cousins shouts from the back of the yard.

“Yeah, Ben, I’m modeling the latest trend: Steelers merch,” Paul yells back. “I want to say something, and I only want to say it once, and then you all can stop harassing me about it.”

The crowd waits expectantly, except for Nellie and Carlo, who duck into the house by way of the back door.

“As one or two of you might have heard,” Paul says, projecting his voice across the yard so that everyone can hear him, “California just became the first state in the US to allow same-sex marriage.”

The joyful shouting and applause following that pronouncement is overwhelming. It makes Barney’s eyes water, watching all these people — his family — cheer for this, this thing he could never have imagined when he was a kid in the 80’s, hiding his crush on Scott Baio and watching Josh die from stigma. Or in the 90’s, the Navy, and CMC Mitchell’s witch hunt that Barney nearly killed himself to get out of.

The cheering dies down. Paul keeps going. “Now, some of you have been asking me today, since we live in the great state of California, when Barney and I are going to tie the knot. I want to tell you right now—”

He has to pause, then, and make a settling gesture with his hands to get thirty or forty people to quiet down and let him finish. “I want to tell you right now that Barney and I will _not_ be getting married in the near future.”

Another break, this time to let everyone make sounds of disappointment. Barney glances up at Paul, sees the little smirk in the corner of his mouth, and has to work hard to hold back his own.

“I know, I know. I’m sorry. Barney and I will NOT get married in the future…”

Carlo and Nellie walk out the back door, carrying a rainbow-frosted sheet cake half the size of the picnic table.

Paul’s smirk turns into a full-out grin, and there’s laughter in his voice as he says, “Because we got married yesterday. Welcome to the wedding reception!”

*

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Through dangers untold and hardships unnumbered, we made it here -- to the end! Thank you for coming along on Barney's journey with me!
> 
> As with Landslide, I have prepared an [Under Pressure Reference Guide for your enjoyment.](http://jhscdood.tumblr.com/post/175975732945/the-under-pressure-reference-guide)
> 
> Seriously, though -- thank you all. <3


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